


Trouble Comes Knocking

by kavekavekav



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Abduction, Betrayed Reyes, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Endgame, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Vetra/Sara but it's just a couple of sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22463251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavekavekav/pseuds/kavekavekav
Summary: Nine months after a death-threatening injury rendered Ryder unsuitable for duty, the ex-Pathfinder finds himself on Eladeen, with no clear purpose and baggage full of regrets.He’ll soon discover that maybe all he needs to get himself back on his feet is an unexpected blast from the past, in the form of the one and only Reyes Vidal.
Relationships: Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal, Ryder/Reyes Vidal
Comments: 50
Kudos: 142





	1. What's past is prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Timber Timbre’s song. Subheadings borrowed from William Shakespeare’s ”The Tempest.”
> 
> I am not done with this pairing yet. Expect lots of unnecessary angst, even more misunderstandings and a happy ending in the last chapter because hey, why not.

The punch is sudden and without SAM’s help, Ryder has no chance to block it. It lands him straight on his back, head banging heavily on the wet floor.

“Fuck! Not so rough, he’ll fucking flip!”

Fighting with the sudden wave of nausea, Ryder tries to pinpoint the voice to a specific person. He’s almost sure though, that he hears it for the first time. The man is not speaking to him, that Ryder is certain of. In the complete darkness of the hallway, all he can see is a vaguely human-shaped silhouette standing over him. There’s another pair of hands, grabbing his shoulders just as he attempts to push himself upright. 

“Easy there,” the owner of those hands says. Another stranger, his breath hot on Ryder’s neck. “Sorry ‘bout the drink.”

Ah. That does clear out a few things. 

Nausea comes back tenfold and Ryder gasps, trashes in his assailant’s grip. A piece of clothing doused with sweet-smelling liquid is pushed over his face and he has no choice but to breathe it in. A cheap and outdated tactic. But an effective one. 

He struggles, bites his lips until he tastes blood but eventually his mouth opens to take an involuntary breath. The acidic fumes tickle the roof of his throat. 

He’s out before the impulse to cough it out kicks. 

XXX

Ryder awakes to harsh sunbeams against his face, boiling hot and blinding through the thick stripe of cloth wrapped around his eyes. His hands are tied loosely behind his back, one wrist attached to the chair he’s seated on. The rope unties as soon as he moves, sliding to the ground like a mucous worm against his wet skin. It’s not a good sign. If he’s free of the restraints, whoever took him doesn’t consider him as a treat.

Ryder freezes. He tries to slow his pulse down, to something not resembling a panic attack, breathes in and out, focuses on the sounds. The room has to be small. He takes a loud breath and the noise echoes back to him. The air is stale and stuffy, stinks of sand and ash. Still Elaaden, then.

The whole situation is so mind-boggling that if not for the persistent headache, Ryder could almost believe it’s nothing more than a very realistic dream. But he remember landing on Elaaden; early in the morning, going into the outpost to rest in a bar. The unbearable heat and a glass of water.

A laced drink. SAM would have noticed it straight away. Then again, SAM wasn’t here anymore. Nine months should be enough, to get used to relying on himself again. Keyword being ‘should’.

Ryder sighs through his nose, a wheezy, painful sound. Just as he gets his heartbeat under some semblance of control, loud, purposeful footsteps ring through the silence. On his left, a door opens shortly after, with a heavy rasp, letting in a whiff of fresh air. 

The footsteps approach. Someone tsks and a warm, rough hand, cups Ryder’s jaw; much too fast, without giving him a moment to prepare himself. It’s a rough, ungloved hand, big, distinctively male. Ryder has to strain himself not to flinch.

When the man speaks, it’s so familiar Ryder’s chest aches.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

Only the shock that overtakes his body, prevents Ryder from reeling away at the sound of Reyes’ voice. His muscles tense and he doesn’t try to move, doesn’t dare to even breathe. He ought to speak, at least, he knows he should but he cannot manage even the smallest sigh.

The blindfold is out of his face with a single jerk and he veers his head to avoid direct sunlight. The room’s not what he envisioned it to be. Not a cell in a basement but a small bedroom instead. A desk, high shelf, bed, large, half-covered window. The door is left wide open; as an invitation or a trap, he can’t tall.

Ryder blinks, eyes slowly getting used to the sharp, yellow light. Reyes looks the same way he did a year ago, down to the light smirk and twinkling eyes, though his hair is more of a warm, sun-bleached brown that his normal, dark shade. 

Impatient or maybe irked by Ryder’s continuous silence, Reyes moves to the side, stands with his back to the window. A shadow falls on his face as he turns Ryder’s head back, doesn’t let him look elsewhere. “Silent treatment?” He asks, mistaking Ryder’s distress for hostility. It’s clear in the way he looks down, one brow raised, perhaps expecting an outburst of anger or better yet, a punch. “Really, Scott?”

It’s been a year, since Ryder escorted Sloane to the duel, one hot, sharp noon, to a humid cave. A year, since the reveal - Reyes with his stupid, insufferable grin, that wide and arrogant one. Giddy, as if he’d already won, just by showing up. 

It’s eerie. Not how Ryder expected their supposed meeting to go. And he thought about it a great deal in the months following the entire debacle, when his anger finally subdued. He regretted his momentary strike of anger, his misguided choice of warning Sloane against the sniper and everything that followed. Not the shot, though. That, he couldn’t bring himself to regret.

And so he never tried to reach out to Reyes, though he amused himself with that thought on rare, late nights, all alone in his quarters. If they meet again, what would he say. If they meet, could they-- 

But he never imagined _that_. Reyes, as always hidden in the plain sight has his allies planted all across the planet, including the Initiative’s outpost. Typical.

The reality, Ryder finds, has a choking stench of chloroform; it pulses like a gash on the back of his head.

“It’s Ryder to you,” he bites out, as evenly as he can muster. The leftover adrenaline squeezes his throat, smooths his words out.

The wicked smile doesn’t slip from Reyes’ face, on the contrary, it grows wider, shy of showing teeth. “Ouch,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly troubled. His grip on Ryder’s jaw tightens. “I thought we were friends.” 

_Friends_. The way he accents this word, it sounds anything but that. And he knows what he’s doing, leaving the unspoken implications hanging over their heads like a storm cloud. 

A rush of blood flows to Ryder’s cheeks. The kiss on Sloane’s party, another on the roof, the night after that and-- Even now, with Reyes’ hands hot on Ryder’s face, his body can’t help but relax under them. 

It’s too much. And Ryder stares at Reyes, mind completely blank. He can’t tell what the other man is thinking, can’t dissect the base information the same way SAM could. Can’t decide whether to stay there or run for the door.

Ryder’s expression hardens. “Kill me if you want,” he mutters, eyes blazing with anger. “But stop this bullshit.” 

Reyes has the gall to look affronted. “I am not here to kill you.”

“Then why?” Ryder presses. “Some back-handed sort of revenge?”

“If only. I...” Reyes' smile shows just a hint of strain. He pauses, moving his hand over Ryder’s brow, tracing a small, poorly healed mark, not more than an inch long. “You know,” he trails off, distracted by the new discovery. “I still have the scar.”

Ryder knows. He placed it there himself.

“I made a pretty good deal for myself here,” Reyes continues, apropos of nothing, light and bland, as if they’re discussing the weather. “I think you might like it. It’s not the same as Kadara, of course, but--”

“Enough of that,” Ryder cuts in, swallowing down the frustration at Reyes’ nonchalance and his own infirmity. “What do you want?”

Reyes purses his lips and cocks his head. He looks like he’s determined to finish his thought but at last, he sighs. “So much for a reunion.” He eases his hand off Ryder’s face, lazily, tracing his fingertips over Ryder’s cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose then over the corner of his lips.

Finally, Reyes takes his hand away and buries it in his pocket. When he raises it again, lightning-fast, Ryder almost recoils, but instead of a knife or a pistol, Reyes takes out a small, standard datapad. He taps the smooth surface twice and when the screen brightens, he drops the pad on Ryder’s knees.

Free of Reyes’ hands on himself Ryder leans back in his chair. Slowly, reluctantly, he casts his eyes down. The message that appears on the screen is short. No sender, no subject, just a single, perfunctory sentence. Dated at 9 am today.

 _Attack on the outpost - three injured, one dead._

Bile rises high in Ryder’s stomach. “How long was I out?” He blurts out, grabs the pad and scrolls lower, checking the other two messages. 

_Kariste Archana still in a coma_ , is the second one. _A raider, no data, no affiliation,_ being the last.

Reyes waits until Ryder’s done. “Two hours,” he explains, then takes the pad from Ryder’s hands, throws it on the desk without turning away. “I just arrived here myself.”

Why, is the question Ryder wants to know an answer to. Why did Reyes do this, and why does he give half a fuck about the Initiative. Why now? And what is he getting out of this? 

From the familiar, smug expression on Reyes’ face, it’s easy to deduce that he really wants to be asked. But there’s a hint of unease, tugging at Ryder’s brain, a poor substitute for SAM, but he’d be damned if he doesn’t listen to it this time.

“So, what,” he starts, squinting his eyes. “You had me drugged so I couldn’t ruin your plan?”

Reyes’ expression shifts into something more genuine. It doesn’t last long but his brows furrow in poorly concealed frustration. “I asked them to invite you,” he stresses, voice almost apologetic. “I didn’t think they were going to take my words... this way.” Ryder is unconvinced, and it has to show, because Reyes adds tersely, “Unlike you, I never wanted you dead.”

Ryder scoffs. “Please, if I wanted to kill you I would. I barely scraped you.”

And it’s true. If he wanted to, he would have aimed for Reyes’ head. He didn’t expect it. Ryder can still remember that surprised little grunt. It was dirty, shooting him in the back like that, but so was bringing a fucking sniper to a duel. 

Reyes’ eyes grow cold at the memory. “You sure seemed like you wanted me gone for good.”

For that, Ryder has no answer. 

Reyes takes a step forward, stops close enough for his leg to brush against Ryder’s thigh, a sudden, burning sensation. He raises Ryder’s chin higher, with two fingers, forces him to hold his gaze. 

From this close Ryder’s senses are assaulted by the heady smell of sand, sweat and tobacco, that particular blend Ryder knows Reyes prefers, dense and intoxicating.

“I am not scared of you,” Ryder warns, jerks his head away.

The look Reyes sends him is nothing short of _fond_. “You never were.” He doesn’t touch him again, doesn’t move away either. “I have a proposition for you.”

“No thanks.”

Reyes barks a quick laugh, corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “You might want to reconsider.”

There’s something strange, in his voice. Not a warning, far from one. It’s colder though, like a dare.

Ryder swallows. “Are you threatening me?”

“I am doing you a favor,” Reyes says, a picture of magnanimity. He steps away, slowly, pointedly, leaving a clear opening, a straight line, between Ryder and the door. “It will be beneficial to both of us,” he goes on, his smile turning sharp and bitter. “Well, you, me and the Initiative.” He pauses, regards Ryder with something akin to a reproof. “And we both know that you will do anything for the Initiative. Will you not, Pathfinder.”

Just like that, Ryder’s blood turns cold. 

His incident, his resignation, while not yet authorized, is a well-kept secret, even on the Nexus. But, Ryder though, he assumed that people know, that Reyes knows, at least, he always knows everything that there is to know. But not this. 

He doesn’t know that Ryder’s a failure of a Pathfinder, that his connection with SAM was severed after the injury he sustained. That if he ever wanted the implant back, the possibility of failure exceeds 90% rate, that he would end up either dead or permanently paralyzed.

He doesn’t know and now, everything begins to make sense. Like small puzzle pieces slotting into their respective places to reveal a bigger, brighter, more fucking obvious picture of a big fucking clown laughing down on him, saying, I got you, idiot, I got you good.

Reyes doesn’t want to kill Ryder, because he needs something from him. It’s so embarrassingly evident it’s almost laughable. 

Ryder bites down the patronizing smirk. He doesn’t want to show all his cards, now, that the advantage shifted to his side. “And what would you want for that favor? I’d like to remind you that I can’t get you a deal with Tann.”

“Fortunately for you then, I want nothing from the Initiative.”

Ryder stretches his legs in front of him, the strain on his bones almost unbearable. He doesn’t let himself wince. “What do you want then?”

Reyes takes his time. He moves, _stalks_ back to Ryder, making the seemingly erratic motion purposeful. “What I want, Ryder,” he says, low and steady, “is your help.”

Ryder's shock lasts about half a second. He blinks, then barks out a laugh that borders on maniacal. “Alright,” he chokes out, still laughing. “Okay. You need SAM.”

What else? Why would he need Ryder when he has enough people of his own. He doesn’t need to hide, here, he doesn’t need a scapegoat to do his dirty work for him. Reyes wants to play coy, fine, but there’s not much he might demand of Ryder. Use your fancy AI for this or that, scan that thing or other. He wants nothing from the Initiative? What a joke.

“No. I need _you_.”

That shuts Ryder up faster than a slap across his face would. 

He doesn’t expect the anger that swells in him at the sound of that request. The way it’s worded sends a wave of stabbing pain through his chest, pins and needles. 

“Screw you,” he rasps, taken off guard. He hates himself for this immediately. He ought to know better than to keep his feeling on his sleeve, for anyone to see.

Reyes shrugs, easily, like he doesn’t notice the slip-up. Like he doesn’t care. “Maybe later. We have a bit of a problem now.” He juts his chin in the direction of the discarded pad. “Your outpost is involved,” he reminds, as if Ryder could forget, “and I can help.”

For a price.

Ryder scoffs. “And you’re playing a good Samaritan now? Helping out for the goodness of your heart?”

“The enemy of my enemy--” 

“Is an enemy of an enemy, nothing more, nothing less. Don’t make a philosophy out of nothing, Reyes.”

Reyes holds his palms up in a placating gesture, more playful than actually intimidated. “A new group of outlaws showed up lately,” he elaborates easily, doesn’t offer many details though. “They refuse to play by the rules.” 

See, Ryder, his smile says, remember how much you like your silly, little rules, Ryder? 

That asshole. 

Ryder frowns slightly. “And that’s your problem, how exactly?”

“They attacked our sites. Left none alive.” Reyes looks to the side, his hands tightening into fists. When he speaks there’s no trace of earlier anguish in his voice, only resolve. “We need to find their leader. Deal with them once and for all.”

“Why don’t you challenge them for a duel?”

It’s a dick move, but Ryder’s pleased to see that Reyes’ carefully painted facade crumples. A hint of vexation flashes across his face, that lasts only for a blink of an eye before he’s smiling again, darkly.

“Why don’t I indeed,” he wondered out loud, tipping his head coyly to the side. He watches Ryder for a moment with an unreadable expression. “You saying you won’t stay in my way?”

Ryder flashes his teeth in a parody of a polite smile. “Keep me updated and maybe I won’t have to.”

A heavy, tense silence falls between them. Ryder sits quietly, chin lifted in mute defiance. He stares Reyes down, for once unfaltering. The tension coils, then snaps. Reyes breaks the staring contest first, deflates with a harsh, defeated sigh. 

“Well, you’re free to go,” he says, turning towards the window, with his back to the door. “I’ll be here, when you change your mind.”

When. When, not if. Fucking bastard.

Ryder jumps up to his feet, sending the chair back with a screeching noise. He wants nothing more than to get away from Reyes, but as soon as he is standing, a wave of nausea sweeps over him, dark spots dancing beneath his eyelids His knees give beneath him and he pitches headlong to the ground. 

Before his face can meet the floor, a steady hand catches his elbow. 

“Are you alright?” 

Ryder jerks back, shrugging Reyes’ hand off. “Ask your buddies,” he sneers, vaguely in Reyes’ direction. His vision swims, black and cloudy, but he stands unflinchingly as the blackness disappears and the clarity returns. 

He hears the surprised exhale, the way Reyes swallows, loud and hard before blurting out, “I didn’t mean--”

But Ryder doesn’t want to hear any more excuses. “Sure you didn’t,” he breathes out. 

He doesn’t grace Reyes with another a glance. Instead, he gets to the door, clutches the frame so hard his knuckles pale.

The valley that stretches itself outside is almost familiar. But then again, most of Elaaden’s landscape looks the same. If he pricks his ears up, a dull, low noise reaches him. A whirl of working machinery, something like a vehicle, driving by, making a stop.

The Flophouse, huh. 

Ryder turns around to face Reyes. “I will help. But I am not doing this for you.”

Reyes blinks, taken aback. “Obviously,” he says, nodding slowly. “You would never.” 

He couldn’t be further from the truth, but that’s his business what he chooses to believe in.

With nothing more to say, Ryder moves past the threshold, feet immediately sinking into the hot, yellow sand.

The sun shines, high in the sky, scorching, despite the partial shadow covering the ground. Ryder recalls the easiest way back, down the hill; two hours by Nomad. About twenty times longer on foot. In 40 degrees.

 _Fuck_.

He takes a step back inside the room, grits his teeth before sighing. “Get me a shuttle, will you?”

The smile Reyes sends his way is small, amused.

“Whatever you want, Ryder.”


	2. But doth must suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to write this one from Ryder’s POV, so when you read it’s not obvious what’s really going on, because you only get one well, point of view. But I miss writing everything clearly ugh. Maybe the new way is more interesting though, idk. I hope it’s still entertaining anyways.

The rover shakes. 

It’s not an unusual occurrence; it’s an old, re-purposed M28 unit, stolen from the Initiative’s reserves sometime around the mutiny’s end. It’s loud, small, cramped, stuffy and frankly disgusting. 

Better than walking all the way on foot, though.

But it shakes. With every turn of its wheels, it shakes, shakes, shakes. And each time it shakes, it slides Ryder to the left, inch by inch, closer and closer to Reyes until their thighs collide.

Ryder’s all but plastered to the side window, the door handle biting viciously into his hip. But he bears it patiently because it’s either that or landing straight on Reyes’ lap the next time the M28 bumps into something. And that would be just downright terrible.

Reyes doesn’t seem to share that sentiment. He’s sprawled in the middle of the seat, far enough from his side of the vehicle that another person could comfortably squeeze themselves between him and the door. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to acknowledge the unholy rocking, eyes fixed on the screen of his datapad. 

The rover shakes. Ryder grits his teeth so hard his jaw almost dislocates. The right corner of Reyes’ lips shots up. It’s so subtle Ryder wouldn’t even notice if he wasn’t already staring at Reyes intensely, as though hoping the man would burst into flames.

“You think it’s funny?” he mumbles, low, to not be overheard by the driver, but loud enough for his voice to carry over the M28 buzzing.

Reyes sends him a sidelong glance. “It’s not the Nomad,” he points out, unnecessarily. Like the quality of the vehicle is the biggest problem here.

But he’s not stupid. Their legs are pressed tightly, knee to knee, he has to feel it through the thick material of his cargo pants. He just wants Ryder to point it out. 

Which Ryder won’t. He absolutely won’t do that. “No shit,” he sighs, dropping the subject. It’s like playing fucking chicken. _I am fine with it if you are_. Fine, whatever. Jesus.

Reyes goes back to his pad. The vehicle shakes.

“Any news?” Ryder asks, desperate for anything to take his mind off the entire situation.

Reyes nods but remains silent as he reads, and when Ryder thinks that’s all he’ll get, Reyes answers, “the shooter was killed on the spot. Human, exile.” He goes over the old information, tilts the screen so Ryder can see for himself. Male, middle-aged, plain-looking. “Had nothing special on him. No affiliations either, no known family nor friends.” He pauses, scrolls back up, to a photo of a weapon, a type of riffle Ryder’s never seen before. 

“What’s this?”

“Apparently a mash-up - kett parts and remnant tech. The problem is, it’s too well made to be handcrafted.”

No to denigrate the raiders, but they’re not the most... crafty bunch. The conclusion is easy to make.

"He stole it from the kett?”

“It’s possible. But we can’t trace it to the source.” He frowns. There's no doubt this setback frustrates him. “We can’t find similar ones.”

“A guy with a prototype weapon attacks the outpost,” Ryder sighs, leaning closer to take a better look. It’s a large assault rifle, sleek and gray, the muzzle gleams with cold, blue light. “This can’t be good.”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Reyes agrees, scrolling through the rest of the report. “First, we’ll ask my contact about the guy, he might know something.”

Ryder starts to nod but a sudden thought flashes in his mind. “What about Archana? Is she--”

“She’s on Nexus now,” Reyes says, breezily. When he notices Ryder’s grimace, he quickly adds, “she’s doing better, don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ryder mumbles, looking down. “If I was there--”

“You’d be dead.”

Ryder gapes. “You don’t know that!”

Reyes turns in his seat so he’s facing Ryder fully. His face is set, but when he speaks his voice is positively scolding. “Ryder,” he chides in a tone a weary mother would use to speak to a child. “Whoever this guy was, he was targeting the Initiative, specifically. Your outpost, your Mayor. Other injured were just in the way.”

Ryder’s face turns white from anger. He draws a deep, startled breath through his teeth. “So you knew he’d attack?”

“I had an inkling.” As usual, Reyes doesn’t elaborate. He is silent for a while, drumming his fingers on the smooth edge of his pad, restlessly, with no particular rhythm. “I didn’t expect you,” he admits, out of the blue.

“Oh?”

“I had my people placed around the outpost, just in case. When they called to tell me about you... I asked them to get you to the Flophouse.”

Ryder looks away, but not quickly enough to conceal his displeasure. The tapping sound cuts abruptly. Reyes’ hand slides on Ryder’s elbow, tugs him back immediately. The space is small, Ryder has nowhere to turn, no other option but to listen.

“I told them to get you by any means necessary. I just thought they’d talk to you first,” he stresses, like it’s important for Ryder to understand. He tries to meet Ryder’s eyes, with no luck. He sighs and slowly takes his hand away. “The new group is hard to trace. They have no name, no apparent purpose. You never know who’s a member until they attack. So we have to be on a constant lookout.”

It’s easy to believe Reyes when he talks like this. It sounds plausible. And it probably is. Ryder hates it all the same.

He looks to the side, stares out of the window and doesn’t speak. Soon, the tapping sound returns and the discussion is officially over.

Amidst the tall, sand dunes, at last, the Paradise shows up in the distance; the red, twisted trees first, then the white, reflective roof of the trading post. 

A small group of people stands near the entrance, watching the approaching vehicle with growing interest.

“Who’s your contact?” Ryder asks when a familiar, battered armor catches his eye. For some reason, the idea of the contact being a mutual acquaintance of theirs didn’t cross Ryder’s mind before, though it’s more than feasible now. 

The rover comes to a screeching halt a generous distance away from the first water tank, tires leaving deep marks on the sand. 

“You know him,” Reyes confirms Ryder’s thought with an elusive smile. Leave it to him, to make a guessing game out of something so trivial. 

With one hand, Reyes pushes the door open and jumps out, leaving Ryder to scramble after him. For a second, the patch of skin, where their legs were pressed so tightly just a moment ago grows unusually cold and Ryder’s stumped, acutely aware of the absence of Reyes’ body, more so now that it’s gone.

“Jesus,” he gasps before he can stop himself. 

The driver shifts in his seat, sends Ryder a questioning look in the rear-view mirror.

Ryder swears under his breath, making himself move. “It’s not an answer,” he grumbles to himself, pressing the handle on his side. 

To his surprise, Reyes is waiting on him just outside the door. When Ryder walks up to him, Reyes moves his hand in the general direction of the gate. 

“Pathfinder!” the man Ryder noticed before is the first one to move. It’d be tricky to recognize him without the helmet on, but his voice is distinctive enough. 

Ryder is so shocked to see him he doesn’t even wince at the title. “Barrett!” He returns the greeting, pointedly ignoring the insufferable smirk on Reyes’ face. 

The ex-raider turns his attention to Reyes now. “Boss,” he nods, and the rest of his group echoes the welcome.

 _Boss_? Ryder looks at Reyes who, naturally couldn’t look more pleased with himself. He doesn’t make Ryder stew long though. With a firm hand on Ryder’s lower back, he guides him up the stairs and inside the post.

“We share a similar goal,” he says, gesturing at Barrett with a free hand, wordlessly ordering him to follow. 

Ryder doesn’t want to ask, not in front of all these people. But it doesn’t take a detective to add two and two together. Barrett, with his eagerness to turn over a new leaf, and Reyes. With his... everything. A match made in heaven. Or, well, Eladeen. 

“Oh,” Ryder mumbles, trying to appear less interested than he really is. “Good for you.”

As soon as they reach the main building, Reyes stops near the door, lets the other people enter first. He moves his hand higher, uses it to bring Ryder’s head closer to himself. 

“I need to check something,” he murmurs, then pushes his datapad in Ryder’s hands. “I’ll leave you to ask the questions. You and SAM can check his databases.” He takes a step back, down the ramp. “Do what you do best.” 

Ryder stiffens. If Reyes notices it, he doesn’t mention it. It’s easy to write it off as embarrassment for which Ryder’s immediately glad. A startled noise breaks out of him that Reyes thankfully takes as an acknowledgment and not panic. He pats Ryder’s back, all friendly, and leaves down the hall.

Fuck.

Ryder all but throws the door open in his haste to get inside before Reyes has a chance to change his mind and decide he wants to talk some more about SAM, or worse, _with_ him.

Barrett sits at one of the two empty tables, by the window, legs perched on a crate. He waves to call Ryder over as if there’s a chance he’s been overlooked in the small, almost empty room. Ryder slides on the opposite seat, with his back to the door, and straight away hands Barrett the pad, with a cropped photograph of the assailant staring at them from the screen.

“Yeah,” Barrett says with conviction after a quick glance. “I remember this guy. He used to work with us for a time, but he joined another gang when we decided to go legitimate.” He shrugs, checks another image, and another, taking his time analyzing the shot of the prototype weapon. “I heard they were killed after their leader went cuckoo, something about a curse,” he laughs, rolls his eyes. “As for the rifle, I’ve never seen anything like that. Your best shot would be asking Isabel.”

“Isabel?” Could it be the exile Ryder’s been asked to find a year or so ago? “You mean Isabel Halsey?”

“That one,” Barrett inclines his head in agreement. “She supplies us sometime.”

So, Isabel still trades as an armorer for the raiders. As far as Ryder can remember, their last conversation didn’t go particularly well; he had to send her brother back to the Nexus, alone and disappointed. 

“She still works from her camp?”

“Well, usually.” Barrett shrugs, eyes moving from Ryder’s face to a point somewhere over his shoulder. “We haven’t heard from her in days though. She’s not at her workshop.”

Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.

“She’s missing?”

“I don’t know if _missing_ is the right term. She leaves sometimes, looking for scrap and the like.”

Ryder doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps so when a pair of hands descend on both sides of his chair, it’s only the years of training that keep him from flipping the table over with a biotic charge as an impromptu escape route. 

“Are you talking about Isabel?” Reyes chimes in, hovering over Ryder, close enough he can feel the brush of Reyes’ shirt against his back. “I’ve tried to reach her when we first found the rifle. I’ve just talked to Velonia, she hasn’t seen her either.” His smile turns reassuring when he sees the deep frown that mars Ryder’s face. “Relax, Ryder. My people are tracing her as we speak.”

Ryder has no doubt that they do, very diligently in fact. But sitting on his ass and twiddling his thumbs doesn’t sit well with him. “Then why don't we go and help them,” he proposes, ready to join the search. 

“She may still show up here, you know. We could miss her if we leave now,” Reyes reasons. “Why not stay here, for the night at least?”

Sharply, Ryder looks out of the window. The sky is indeed getting darker and in a hour or two the visibility will be reduced significantly. Stumbling around blindly doesn’t seem like a particularity well-planned idea, so he doesn’t argue.

“I guess.”

“I got us a room.” As a proof of his words, Reyes pulls out the keycard from the back pocket of his pants and places it on the table, in front of Ryder.

It’s small and worn, the golden coat is rubbed off the corners, revealing a cheep, metal surface underneath. Ryder reaches to take it when the meaning sinks. “A room?”

Reyes circles the table to grab himself a chair. “They only had the one,” he explains, seating himself between Ryder and Barrett, bumping Ryder’s foot with the tip of his shoe.

Of course they fucking did. The trading post is so small it’s a wonder they have any. One vendor, four rooms, three tables and one waiter, who chooses that very moment to grace them with his presence, bringing with him a dark bottle of some unidentified alcohol and three glasses.

“Thanks, Callingwood,” Reyes says when the last glass is placed on the table. The man - Callingwood, apparently, leaves with a nod.

Ryder frowns. It seems there’s not a single person Reyes doesn’t know on this hell of a planet. Just like him, to not only set up a home on another planet while on a run from Sloane’s goons but also make a hell of a reputation for himself while at it.

Reyes opens the bottle with smooth efficiency of someone well accustomed to good-quality liquor. The cork pops and the booze sizzles, light bubbles raising to the bottleneck. The smell is potent, but not choking, just bitter enough to assure Ryder, that the alcohol is both pricey and high proof, nothing like the cheep and strong booze he drowned himself in for weeks upon weeks after his injury.

He haven’t had a drink since he left the Nexus, three weeks before coming to Eladeen. But a glass couldn’t hurt, could it?

Unaware of Ryder’s indecision, Reyes pours him a drink and without a word, slides the glass until Ryder takes it in his hand. While Reyes fills the rest of the glasses, Ryder raises his and before he can reconsider, gulps the content down, to the last drop.

“Another?”

Ryder shakes his head, lowering his eyes to the empty glass. The liquor went down beautifully and Ryder can easily see himself spending the rest of the night just like that, throwing a drink after a drink.

A quarter-glass isn’t going to make him tipsy but it’s better to stop before he makes a scene of of himself. He never could hold his liquor well.

“Leaving already?” Barrett asks, eyeing Ryder as he pushes himself upright.

“Yes.” Ryder waves the keycard pointedly, indicating his plans for the rest of the evening.

“Room 2,” Reyes offers helpfully, downing his own drink. “Don’t wait up,” he adds, again reaching for the bottle.

Ryder meets Reyes’ quip with an long-suffering sigh. “Yes, dear,” he scoffs, and bidding his farewells quickly, he exits the room with indescribable relief at the prospect of having a moment to himself.

Trailing down the hall, Ryder passes a couple of identical automatic doors made of shiny metal resembling stainless steel, until he finds the one with a big number two written messily with black spray paint. 

He swipes the card, waits for the small light on the card-reader to change from red to blue. The door opens sluggishly with a loud swish, so slow Ryder manages to enter the room before the door hits the frame. After the motion detectors register him coming inside, the door closes itself with the same, laggard pace.

The room is bare and narrow, still larger than Ryder imagined it would be. Two beds take almost the entirety of the area leaving just enough space for a tall locker, single folding chair, and a five-by-five feet bathroom. The air is stuffy despite the wide-open window and noisy air conditioner. Ryder immediately misses his quarters at the outpost, the big, soft bed, and clean sheets. But there’s no use in crying over this. If Reyes is right, it might be still too dangerous to come back there. 

_Besides_ , Ryder thinks to himself, shrugging off the sweaty clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor, _it’s only for the night_. Tomorrow he’ll be out of here, searching for Isabel, wherever Reyes approves of it or not. He can bear staying here for a couple of hours. Right?

The shower spits an uneven trickle of lukewarm water that smells distinctively like iron and sulfur. The temperature rises half-way through and Ryder has to stop for the fear of melting his skin off. He eyes his dirty clothes warily. It’s much too hot to sleep fully dressed, but he’d be damned if he lets Reyes see him buck-naked. Again. 

Ryder’s face, already red from heat and steam, somehow grows even hotter at the unwanted memory but he shoos it away, slipping into his clothes resentfully, grimacing when the moist material of his pants clings to his scrubbed-clean skin, wrapping firmly around his legs. Resigned, he throws his shirt over the top rail of the chair, kicks his shoes under it for good measure then drops on the nearest bed, turns to face the wall and squeezes his eyes. 

But sleep doesn’t come. Minutes pass, the sun sets, the shadows fall on the wall in neat stripes, mirroring the drawn shutters. He’s still awake to hear the soft ping of the card-reader, the hiss of the door.

Reyes steps in, as silent as a ghost. His clothes hit the floor before the door has a chance of closing. “How’s the bed?” His voice comes out raspy, but he doesn’t sound drunk. Weird, considering how long he spent with Barrett and his guys.

“Amazing,” Ryder mutters lackadaisically. He can feel all the springs and lumps digging into his side, no matter how he settles himself on the poor excuse of a mattress. 

“Might want to try mine,” Reyes offers, matching his tone. His footsteps just now clank on the floor, as if he only started to move away from the threshold and into the room.

“Already did, thanks,” Ryder lies easily, ignoring the double entendre. “You’re not going to shower?” he asks when the second bed screeches and puffs as Reyes stretches himself out on it.

“And boil myself to death?” Reyes barks a laugh. “Water’s colder after the night,” he says, voice muffled against the pillow. “Smells the same, though.” 

Now, with Reyes here, the cramped room seems even smaller, the distance between their beds shorter. The intermittent buzzing of the broken ventilator sounds harsh and piercing in the sudden silence that falls over them like a thick blanket.

Ryder hums in acknowledgment, short and low. Neither of them speaks after that, and before long, Reyes’ breath turns even and calm. Ryder lies unmoving, listening to the steady hum of air, interrupted only by the deep, rhythmical exhales. He stays up, for long enough to be sure that Reyes is truly asleep. He can’t decide whether it’s Reyes’ bravado or simply insanity that makes him rest that easily next to a person who he thought wanted to kill him. 

If he still trusts Ryder, it would be because he knows him too much. He must have seen past the earlier lie, know that shooting him in the back, enough to the side to not cause any permanent injury, was all Ryder could bring himself to do that day. 

Perhaps he knows Ryder regrets it. Perhaps he doesn’t care. 

It is done either way, though no matter how many times Ryder repeats it, he’s far from believing his own words. Especially now, in the shared room, it feels even further from the truth. 

Nothing good can come out of overthinking, and Ryder knows he shouldn’t concern himself with the past. It’s unchangeable. And he’ll have enough things to worry about in the future.

Elaaden nights though short, quickly grow cold; the temperature changes drastically as the heat escapes the dry air. The climate had softened, in the months after activating the Vault. It’s livable, but harsh enough to be a challenge and a welcome break from the old routine. 

Ryder came here hoping to hole himself up in the outpost, where he might still be of some use, even without SAM. But he found himself in more trouble than he’d hoped for. 

More trouble than he’s ready for.

 _Only for the night_ , Ryder thinks to himself one more time, hiding his face in the crook of his arm and praying for sleep. 


	3. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve learned that the Nomad is a rover-like vehicle so we’ll be calling it a rover too, I edited the last chapter accordingly. It’s a funny word, rover. I know nothing about cars, automobiles, motors, quads, etc, etc, so sorry for any mistakes, please let me know if I got something wrong so I can fix it asap thank you!

How long does it take to find a single woman in a desert? One day? Two? 

Three. Fucking. Weeks. It’s the answer. Three weeks of faffing about, doing absolutely nothing useful and, on rare occasions, riding around the Sea of Ataraxia in circles until Ryder can’t feel his ass anymore from sitting in the same position for hours.

Turns out Isabel’s just as elusive as Ryder remembers her to be and nobody, including her own brother, can get a hold on her, again. But that’s not the worst thing. Since life likes to fuck with Ryder, most of the time, however, he’s stuck in the trading post, because - according to Reyes - the temperature outside is much too high to continue the search. Which is just as well, because, between Reyes’ contacts and Barrett’s men, it seems like Ryder’s not even needed. 

They have no leads, no hints, no rumors, nothing to go on. In a moment of desperation, on day seven of this hell, Ryder tried to contact his sister, but Sara couldn’t offer any advice either, except that he should, ‘relax a little,’ and ‘enjoy his vacation’. Vacation. What a joke.

So Ryder’s slowly losing his mind, one day at a time. Reyes, on the other hand, looks like he’s having a ball, lounging on his bed and sipping chilled Tavum. He keeps a good front, possibly to irritate Ryder further, or because watching Ryder dying from boredom secretly pleases him. Who knows with him, really. 

Ryder plops on his bed, face first and groans into his pillow. He starts to regret arguing with Reyes about whether or not they should work today. The satisfaction from winning so easily dimmed as soon as the sun has risen.

“We’ll find her eventually.” Reyes’ voice comes out faint and muffled through the bathroom door. He’s been there nearly half an hour now. ‘Getting ready’.

“What if we won’t?” Ryder whines, lifting his head when the sound of running water finally cuts off. “What if she’s dead?”

The door opens shortly after and Reyes walks into the room in only his pants, hair still damp. He brushes a stray lock off his forehead, then raises one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Then we will find her corpse and you can scan her for info.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Ryder reminds, watching impassively as Reyes makes a lazy way over to the locker. He’s seen Reyes in a similar state of undress so often, it quickly lost its novelty. 

“Maybe they’ll leave a note?” Reyes steps into his shoes, fastens the laces so tightly the leather screeches from the force.

“Sure they will.” Ryder pushes himself into a sitting position. “Along with a map to their secret hideout and a full list of members.” There’ve been no more attacks on the outpost, no ambushes nor traps. Even so, Ryder can’t shake off the creeping feeling that they’re somehow running out of time. “Ugh, this is useless.” 

“We could take a ride through the Languish this time,” Reyes suggests, checking his handgun - a small but extremely pricey model of angaran build. Ryder had only seen it in action once, against some overgrown sand bugs, nothing exciting, but it has a massive stopping power. A real catch. “If you still want to go?”

“Mhm?” Ryder takes his eyes off the pistol. Reyes observes him with a shadow of a smirk that Ryder pretends not to notice. “Yeah, sure. Anything’s better than staying here.” 

The safety clicks on and off, the notch jumping back into place. “Your call,” Reyes says, packing his pistol in the holster and strapping it to his belt.

Ryder’s hand goes to his own holster automatically. He thumbs his gun through the leather then stands up to stretch. His shirt rides up a little and he briefly considers taking a spare with him, when, in a trice, the hairs on his whole body shot up. He straightens, feeling Reyes’ eyes on him, steady and assessing. “What?” 

It goes on for no more than a second longer and Reyes turns to take his shirt off the chair. He pulls it over his head, and Ryder catches a glimpse of his bare back, muscles moving as he raises his hands, and a scar, small and circular. He drops his eyes to his feet.

“Nothing,” it what Reyes settles on, uncharacteristically curt and Ryder decides not to pry. He raises his head, their eyes meet. Reyes reaches for his jacket, and asks, “ready?”

Ryder’s been good to go for the past hour, grumbling at Reyes to get on moving every ten minutes or so. He doesn’t reply, just grabs his bag and leaves the room. He doesn’t need to check if Reyes is following, the clank of his shoes on the floor is enough of an answer.

The driver idles away outside the post, smoking a cigarette. He moves to dump it as soon as he sees them.

“It’s fine,” Ryder waves him off, climbing into the front seat, dropping his bag on the passenger seat and activating the console with a quick slide of his hand. He can drive the damn thing himself for a change. 

The guy stares at Reyes, the cigarette sticking out of his half-open mouth. Reyes shrugs. He moves his head in a gesture that Ryder translates as, ‘go on,’ and he has to be right about the meaning, because next thing, Reyes joins him inside the vehicle, leaving the driver behind. 

Reyes picks his usual place, crosses his legs, but he doesn’t whip out his datapad first thing after getting seated. He just watches Ryder in the rear-view mirror, head tilted to the side.

It’s unnerving so Ryder twists in his seat to face him. The angle is uncomfortable and he feels the strain on his back but he tolerates it for long enough to ask, “what is it?”

Reyes raises his hand. The distance between them is small enough that a second later his fingers meet the bridge of Ryder’s nose. It’s so sudden, Ryder doesn’t think to shift back.

“Freckles,” Reyes says, like it’s a satisfactory explanation. And it has to be, for him, because he doesn’t offer a follow-up.

Ryder’s neck prickles. “It’s from the sun,” he explains stupidly. The longer he stays on a warm planet, the more prominent they become. It’s something he stopped paying attention to after a prolonged stay on Kadara one summer, some light years ago. “I get sunburned easily.”

“I remember,” Reyes hums and Ryder thoughts jump from relatively safe to a very hazardous place. Yes, Reyes remembers. He also remembers other things, like how easily Ryder skin reddens and how far it spreads.

Dangerous territory, that.

Ryder clears his throat, averts his eyes. Reyes lets his hand fall.

“So, the Languish first, right?” Ryder asks for a lack of better distraction. He turns stiffly, punches the coordinates into the console, holds on until the confirmation pops on the screen to power up the engine. “Then, maybe Gahenna Valley?”

“Fine by me,” Reyes agrees easily. It’s a thing he does; he gets too close, then acts as nothing happened. And Ryder could never figure him out, so he doesn’t try to now.

The M28 starts with a roar, tires squealing and squelching as they turn and the vehicle speeds into the desert, smooth and steady, like on a glacier.

Reyes whistles. “Damn, Ryder,” he teases, “keep going like that and I’ll have to fire our usual driver.”

“Why, thanks,” Ryder grins. The M28 is a piece of trash, but having driven the Nomad on Voeld without the improved suspension mode, guiding a rover through the sand dunes is like a walk in the park. Needless to say, after that ordeal, Ryder can make any vehicle dance.

The rover dashes north, up the valley, scattering mounds of sand in its wake. The console flickers when they rush past the derelict Remnant structure, the screen goes dark, then flashes on. It happens, sometimes, so Ryder pushes forward, prepared for another uneventful game of hide and seek.

And that’s when he sees a cloud of smoke in the distance, coming from a floored shuttle. It lays on the edge of the cliff, too far to the side for it to be placed there purposefully.

“An accident?” Ryder chances, pointing to the thick, black smoke coming from the aircraft. 

“Possibly,” Reyes responds absentmindedly, deep into his reading. “Happens sometimes.” He merely glances out of the window, unconcerned. “Not ours though.”

Obviously not Reyes’ or he would have known about it. It’s unmarked, a standard UT-47 Kodiak, the name-tag rubbed off from the wear and age. Aside from the smoke, the shuttle seems to be in one piece. 

Again, the console flickers off, but before it does, a handful of red dots appear on the map, in various points around them.

“There’s something--”

The M28 swerves. Ryder hits the brakes in the nick of time just as the shuttle burst into flames. It’s not a normal explosion, the detonation starts in three different spots at once, remotely ignited. A large chunk of machinery whizzes over the rover, another one lands straight under the wheels, effectively blocking them.

Then the first shot slams into the front window. And nine more, in quick succession. The glass doesn’t break, though the shield glimmers and power drops to twenty percent. One more shot and they’ll be fried alive.

The attackers that surround them appear to be raiders, ten of them to be precise, all in different, miss-matched pieces of battered armor, wielding kett weapons, gray and blue. They move with near-identical precision, drawing their riffles and pointing the barrels forward. 

Ryder doesn’t wait for them to reload, he’s out of the door, faster than Reyes can cock his pistol. The electric surge is near immediate; goosebumps rise on his skin as the mass effect field crawls over his body, blue and violent.

He pulls the closest raider to himself so sharply he loses his rifle. It plunges into the sand at his feet. At the same moment, he’s plucked off the air then hurled like a large stone into his buddy. Together, they topple over the edge and disappear from the view. 

“Nice!” Reyes shouts from behind the rover as the other raiders scramble to take cover. One of them turns to take a shot, but Reyes’ faster. The beam blasts a hole, clean through the chest plate.

Three down but they are still at a disadvantage, stuck out in the open, completely exposed. A burst of rapid gunfire starts from every direction. A stray beam grazes Ryder’s arm before he can raise a barrier around them. The next attack comes slower but the beams eat through the shield like acid.

Reyes is still shooting when Ryder’s barrier breaks and vanishes. He jumps back from the rover, and ducks, using the momentum to launch a Cobra RPG into the shuttle, reigniting it. “Where the fuck did they get these weapons?” He yells, above the racket of explosions and pained howling.

“I don’t know,” Ryder barks out. The odor of burnt flesh fills the air and he gags, whirling around. “Get back!”

With Reyes out of the way, Ryder thrusts a shockwave towards the M28. The charge sends it dashing in the air a couple of steeps then right on top of three raiders. It takes one bullet Reyes shots nimbly as the vehicle falls to blow it up to pieces, burying the group under the rubble.

“Keeping up, Ryder?” Reyes breathes out, a heartbeat away.

Ryder snorts. For someone who prefers to work from shadows, he seems completely at ease. Rightfully so, it seems, since they are both largely unscathed, and the only two raiders are left to circle around each other, back to back, out of ammo.

“You know me,” Ryder says, high on the adrenaline and giddy from it.

He charges, biotic flaring like a supernova, there and gone in a snap. He reappears a couple of feet back, kneeling over a now-dead raider, reaping his omni-blade out of the guy’s gut and leaping for the last one, bringing him down in the same fashion.

When he stands up, the echoes of the fight are long gone, replaced by almost unnatural in comparison silence. He picks up one of the riffles. It’s heavier than it looks, clunky and weirdly-shaped. The barrel is hot to the touch from the overuse.

“You good?” Reyes draws closer, glancing at the bruise on Ryder’s arm. It doesn’t bleed, barely a scrap. “Do you have any medi-gel on you?”

“It was in my bag.” Ryder shakes his head, sheepishly. “In the rover.”

Reyes checks their position on his omni-tool. Half-way to the ass-end of nowhere. “Barrett’s not far. I’ll get him to pick us up.” He pauses and looks up, holding back a grin. “Think you can manage until that?”

“I am not sure,” Ryder huffs, but not meanly. He smiles a little, joining in on the joke. “It looks pretty bad, huh? You think I’ll live?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryder spots a figure so small he can’t tell for a second if it’s a human or animal. But the sight of a sniper rifle is not something he could ever mistake, especially when the sniper is aiming in his direction.

Wait. No. Not in his.

“Watch out!”

The trigger is pulled and the front sight of the rifle flashes blue. Reyes takes a step - in the wrong direction - but Ryder jerks him to the side and the beam misses him by an inch. He twists on his heel, aims and takes a shot. It lands home and the figure falls.

“Seen that, Ry--” Reyes’ laugh breaks. His eyes widen. He grabs the hem of Ryder’s shirt and tugs, revealing a deep, raised wound. “Shit.”

Ryder tastes the iron in the back of his mouth before the pain registers, but when it does, it blinds him. He staggers, vainly trying to catch his balance, and if not for Reyes’ hands on him, he would have tipped over.

But that’s not the end of their worries. A rushing noise arises over the horizon, growing louder and louder, morphing into a deep rumbling of several shuttles. For a second Ryder feels a surge of relief but one look at Reyes’ tense expression tells him that this is not a good sign.

“Can you stand?” Reyes pulls him upright urgently, voice wavering. “We need to go.”

The shot didn’t hit anything vital, that Ryder can tell without SAM’s help, though he’s bleeding heavily and he doesn’t have the energy to run for long.

They don’t have much choice. He grabs Reyes by the forearm, tugs him around. The shuttle descend. “Run,” he gasps, and bolts, Reyes hot on his heels.

They race down the valley, the gunshots ringing behind them, ricocheting off the tent rock and stony slopes. Ryder hears at least a dozen people, but it might be more.

They don’t escape too far, well, Ryder doesn’t. He takes a turn behind a large rock when the black spots cloud his vision. The ache turns sharp and clawing. His breath comes out heavy and he has to stop and steady himself with both hands on the wall, fingers sliding over the stone, wet and bloody.

The footsteps near dangerously, fast and loud.

It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t if SAM was still here. He isn’t. It’s unfair, to let Reyes die, along with Ryder. “I didn’t know--” he starts, has to swallow down the grunt of pain. He tries again, desperate. “I’ll slow you down,” he chokes out.

Reyes either doesn’t hear it or chooses not to. He grabs Ryder’s arm, drapes it over his shoulder and tugs.

It’s only a couple of steps before Ryder stumbles once more. Reyes holds him up, takes more of his weight and keeps pushing forward, towards a cave.

And there, he finds it - a chasm. Small, but they might just fit in.

They struggle inside, fumble a few steps and stop. The cave narrows down to a space so tiny only a child half their size could hope to walk past. They can’t go any further, but they cannot stay inside either. There’s not enough space to hide and even if they did, their pursuers would have to be completely blind to miss the trail of blood leading to their hideout.

But if Reyes gets on now and leaves him here as a distraction, he might yet escape. “Leave me,” Ryder hisses, making an attempt to free himself, only to double over in pain.

Reyes’ face is a graven mask. “No.” He catches Ryder’s forearm in a death grip, fingers digging into the muscle.

“Reyes--”

“Shut up.” His words are sharp, but he moves his thumb in comforting circles, eyes scanning the area for any means of escape.

“It’s no use,” Ryder sighs, leaning on the wall with all the strength he has left. The loose stones shift under his back, some falling down with a rattle.

“Scott, st--”

The ground shifts under their legs with the ferocity of a small earthquake, as more and more stones roll off the wall, in bigger and bigger chunks.

It all happens in the span of a millisecond. The floor crumbles. Ryder, pressed closely to the wall loses his footing first. The wall collapses, taking him with it, into a bottomless pit of black. Reyes isn’t far off, still clutching Ryder’s arm, or at least, trying to.

The fall is short and tempestuous. Ryder thunders to the ground and his breath leaves his lungs with a gurgling hiss. He fights for breath, gulping down mouthfuls of air. His chest contract, spasm. The pain shots up his spine, burning and paralyzing, so strong he blacks out for a short time.

The fear makes him come to his senses, his body refuses to give up. He blinks. It’s excruciating. His eyes close against the trickle of a stinging liquid, be it sweat of blood. Through half-lifted eyelids he sees a face.

A young boy, with dark, curly hair. He leans over, his lips move but no sound comes out.

The hand around Ryder’s wrist tenses. Then relaxes.

Ryder’s mind takes it as a sign to let go. And he does, his body going slack. And weightless.


	4. I might call him a thing divine For nothing natural I ever saw so noble

Ryder survives.

In retrospection, it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. After all, it happens every time he gets himself in trouble. He almost dies, somebody revives him, they expect him to get back on his feet and he does, in double time. It’s a bit different now. Without the omnipresent beeping of heart monitors and the overwhelming scent of antiseptic Ryder came to associate with hospitals. And without SAM’s voice, droning on updates and reports.

The air here tastes of salt, nothing like the dry stench of sand and heat he thought he’d feel when he woke up for the first time. Then again, he did not expect to wake at all. He’s in and out of consciousness for what feels like years, a handful of little eternities, though Reyes tells him only a week has passed since they got here.

They stay in a makeshift dwelling, nothing more than a tent, a scrap of fabric hung from the steel pole supporting the cavern. The tapping of water unveils the nearness of a water source, so does the humidity.

“It’s a long network of underground tunnels,” Reyes discloses on one occasion, “a handful of chambers people use as homes.”

Sometimes Ryder hears the echoes of conversations, stomping of bare feet on the stone. Somebody brings them food - some meat of dubious quality and water, cold and fresh. They are safe there, for the time being, that’s what Reyes says anyway. He refuses to answer any other questions and Ryder doesn’t bother wasting his breath.

Reyes makes a horrible nurse, pushing things in Ryder’s hands and glowering at him until Ryder does as he’s told. He doesn’t say much, which is a revelation in itself. Mostly, ‘sleep, Ryder,’ or, ‘save your strength, Ryder’, orders and instructions spoken in a worn, detached tone.

It takes a few more days before Ryder recovers enough to stay awake for longer than an hour or two at a time. And another week until he can sit by himself. The wound heals slowly, the stitches are clean and even. The bruises don’t fade as easily, leaving large patches of color, mottling his skin black and blue.

Reyes disappears sometimes, returns visibly frustrated and frowning. He refuses to let Ryder follow, even though he’s well enough to stand now.

“I don’t think they’ll let us leave, Scott,” Reyes whispers to him one night, changing the bandages. His hands move deftly, rolling the leftover gauze to save it for later. Medicine is scarce here, Ryder doesn’t want to think what Reyes had to do, to get it.

“So, it’s true,” he asks because he had his suspicions. The boy whose face he saw before passing out - the infamous Little Mouse. “The gang--”

“Gang,“ Reyes huffs as if that word personally slights him. “More like a group of children. The boy’s no older than fifteen.”

“Then what’s the problem?” It’s peeving, being kept in the dark for so long. Reyes feeds him scraps of information, only whatever he thinks Ryder’s ready to hear. For all Ryder knows, the only reason they are still stranded here is because Reyes bids his time. For what, he isn’t sure, after all, he can only guess. “The curse?”

Reyes laughs. He does it more often these last days. It’s good to see. “You mean the rumor about some raider going mad after stealing from the kid’s stash?”

“Could be true,” Ryder mumbles causing another wave of laughter. He’s not superstitious, he’s really not. But some things should be left alone.

Still chuckling, Reyes stands from the crate, shoves in under Ryder’s ‘bed’. “You call it a curse,” he says activating his omni-tool. It beeps, one, two, three times. “I call it red sand overdose.”

“Whatever.” Drugs or no drugs, if other rumors regarding Little Mouse can be believed, Ryder’d strongly prefer to leave this place as quick as possible. “Still no signal?”

Reyes nods in a reply, frowning at the screen. They are not far underground, only several stores down and it doesn’t make sense, but somehow the signal doesn’t reach here. Reyes says it’s a malfunction, Ryder bets it on the Little Mouse’s handiwork, or perhaps a machine that disrupts the connection. Whoever is right, they still cannot contact anyone. They don’t know the way back, though Reyes makes some progress, scribbling a map on his omni-tool.

Reyes doesn’t ask about SAM, which is an unexpected oversight on his part. Maybe because he thinks the injuries Ryder sustained were so severe it temporarily broke the link between them. It’s not possible, of course, but for someone who never had the Implant, it might be sound theory. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to put more strain on Ryder. Which is nice, surprisingly.

Ryder tried to bring it up, days ago, but Reyes only shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it now,’ he said. Didn’t bring it out ever again.

“Alright, look.” Reyes sits on the edge of the pallet that serves as a bed. He shows Ryder the map, rests his arm over Ryder’s knees. “We’re here,” he points at a small circular area on the bottom of the map, then moves his finger way higher, through various, thin lines that correspond to cavities and passages. “And there’s the hall. We have two options. We can go right, to the place we feel through. Or left.”

“What’s left?”

“No idea. It’s heavily guarded.”

“The entrance then,” Ryder guesses, analyzing the map, the width of the cavern, countless paths and chasms. “So, we don’t really have a choice.”

“I didn’t check everything yet.” Reyes makes a circle over the lower area of the map, devoid of any markings. “Here and here.”

Considering the amount of terrain Reyes did check, it’d take ages to look for another exit. “It’s too far though, don’t you think?” Ryder stares at the screen for the last time, feeling completely useless. “If there’s a second opening down there, we might be walking through the tunnels for days before reaching it.”

“And they would know where to look,” Reyes sighs, but he doesn’t admit defeat easily. “We still have some time. Maybe I could find that machine you spoke about.”

“So you believe me then?”

Reyes tsks, makes a wave with his free hand. So-so. “If there’s tech that could distort electrical signals like this buried around here, it’s either Remnant or kett.”

“Or maybe it’s the--”

“It’s not a curse, Scott.”

“I am just saying. It’s suspicious,” Ryder mumbles under his breath. Reyes has that stupid expression on his face again, that weird, soft one. “Anyway, why would they want to keep us here?”

“Us?” Reyes looks at him as if he’d grown a second head. ”They don’t care about me,” he explains slowly. “It’s you they want.”

“What? Why?”

Reyes taps the blue ‘Ai’ on Ryder’s pants with one finger. The Andromeda Initiative logo. “They’re not that stupid, Scott.”

Oh. “They want ransom?”

“Bingo.” He leans forward and adds in a stage whisper. “I told them to wait until you get better.”

“Reyes!”

“Calm down, we’ll make a break for it when you’re healed,” he says, shifting to sit fully on the bed. “The longer they think you’re weak, the more time we have to prepare.”

Ryder considers it for a minute. He moves his legs to the side so Reyes can make himself comfortable. “Are they armed?”

“Some.” Again with the half-answers, Reyes rests his back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“Won’t they look for us?” If they even succeed at escaping.

Reyes doesn’t seem bothered, he hums. “I think we can outrun twelve people, Scott.”

“Twelve?”

“Yeah. Six guards the entrance, two on patrols, four around the water source.”

“And the rest?”

“Slaves and ‘pilgrims’.”

Ryder grimaces.

“Both are here for the drugs,” Reyes is quick to add. Like it changes anything.

“Shouldn’t we--”

“We need to get out of here first,” Reyes cuts in, tone definite. He cracks one eye open, squints. “Then I’ll get Barrett to wipe them out if you want,” he offers flippantly.

“But--”

“Scott, we need to find you a doctor, a proper one. And we have to make sure that until we do, we won’t run into another ambush.” He moves to lie down, stretches askew on the pallet. He’s silent for a bit and when he speaks again it’s barely audible. “You should stop worrying about everyone else and start worrying about yourself.”

Ryder isn’t sure, whether that comment was supposed to reach his ears or no, but it did, so he answers. “It’s my job to look after everyone.” Except it isn’t. Not anymore. But it’s a knee-jerk reaction and he says it without thinking.

“And how do you want to do that if you’re dead?”

The borderline patronizing tone should irritate him, would irritate him, hearing it from anyone else. From Reyes, though, Ryder finds that he doesn’t really mind. He looks down, at the slumped body next to him. Reyes has a knack for appearing relaxed even when he isn’t, or perhaps especially when he isn’t. Right now, he is making the hard, metal pallet look downright comfortable. His hair is untamed, free of the pomade, the strands falling softly over his closed eyes.

Ryder wants to brush them away. He doesn’t.

“Exactly,” Reyes mumbles, half-way into falling asleep. He reads the silence as an admission of defeat. It is, but not in the way he thinks. “So, stay low, and don’t rush, for once.” He waits to hear Ryder’s answer and when it doesn’t come, he prompts, “okay?”

Their hands are resting on the thin, worn blanket, inches away from touching. One brush to the right and Ryder could press his fingers against Reyes’. He could make it look like an accident.

“Okay,” he breathes, taking his hands away.

“Don’t go looking for trouble, hmm?”

Ryder doesn’t need to. He’s already here.

XXX

The plan is set in motion at midnight. Of course, down underground, the time of the day has only relative importance. But underground or not, a night is still a night.  
  
Ryder dresses in silence. Keeping the noise to a minimum is a must if they want to slip past the guards undetected. He takes his gun from underneath the pallet. His holster is gone, so he has to clutch the grip in his hand the entire time.  
  
“Where’s yours?” He asks, noticing Reyes nearby, empty-handed. He didn’t think about it earlier, just assumed Reyes hid both of their weapon here. Apparently not.  
  
Reyes shrugs, “I lost it.” It’s hard to believe. Reyes is not that kind of person who’d willingly leave his gun and render himself helpless. Besides, that handgun was a masterpiece.  
  
“Lost it? Where?”  
  
“If I knew where I lost it then would it still be lost?”  
  
Smartass. “Forget it,” Ryder grumbles, sticks the gun behind the waistband of his zipped pants, raider-style.  
  
Thankfully there’s no more talking while they navigate through the passages. The small reflectors are placed only in the main areas, crossroads and caves, so for most of the way they have to make do with the pale light of their omni-tools.  
  
A crudely made staircase leads them to a higher level. The steel panels wobble under their feet as they stomp on them, heading upstairs to a labyrinth of wavy, winding tunnels.  
  
As they move further into the passage there's a smaller chasm off to the side. Reyes grabs Ryder’s hand, pulls him back and tenses. A sudden noise makes them stop, flatten to the wall, stumbling to click the lights off. The sound of a door hissing open is deafening and the footsteps echo so loudly it’s impossible to tell where they came from and where they are heading.  
  
Reyes' eyes flicker to Ryder’s but neither of them moves. Reyes waits for a few beats until the noise dies down, then rushes to the door and presses his hands against the pad in the wall to keep it open. It works and they take the main corridor until they find themselves in a bigger cave. The far end narrows down into yet another tunnel.  
  
Ryder tugs Reyes to himself, moves his head to the small opening in the ceiling where he can see a faint glow.  
  
Reyes shakes his head. _Not yet_. He squeezes Ryder’s hand tighter before moving again.  
  
Left, right, left, left and there, they see it. A light, not far away.   
  
They run for it and don’t stop unit they reach the chasm. The hole in a wall is not high, within a jumping distance. Reyes points to it with his chin and Ryder nods, climbs first, clawing forward until his fingers bury themselves in the hot sand and he sighs with relief.  
  
“I can’t believe we--” Ryder starts but a hand on his mouth shushes him up. Swiftly, Reyes maneuvers him around and they retreat into the dark.   
  
From there, they observe a couple of people, men and women as they walk in the opposite direction, hauling a stuffed bag. They don’t talk, moving sluggishly, wide-eyed and barefoot, with red bruises around their wrists. The dust and soot mar their clothes and faces.  
  
“What are they doing?” Ryder whispers, when they vanish around the corner.  
  
“Bringing _gifts_ in exchange for drugs, food or a place to stay.”  
  
Gifts? A payment. And Ryder until now though it was a charity. That Little Mouse wanted to keep him in good health to secure the credits from the Initiative. “What did you give him?” he asks and Reyes looks up, stares at Ryder for a moment.  
  
“Scrap parts,” he dismisses, but it’s obviously a lie. Ryder connects the dots.  
  
“From your gun?”   
  
Reyes sighs, “look, it doesn’t matter--”  
  
“Thank you,” Ryder cuts him off.  
  
Reyes blinks, like he expects an argument instead. But then shakes his head, looks away, and starts walking, omni-tool held in front of him. “Don’t thank me for that.”  
  
Ryder speeds up to catch up with him. “You saved my life.”  
  
“You were injured because of me.”  
  
“No I wasn’t--”  
  
“You warned me.” Reyes’ voice rises an octave but he doesn’t slow down. “You got shot instead of me.”  
  
“I couldn’t let you take the hit.”  
  
Reyes stops in his track and whirls around. “Why?”  
  
Ryder gulps. “What do you mean why? I just--” Just what? He stops and ducks his head.  
  
Reyes' face turns gentle. He comes closer, raises Ryder's chin up so their eyes can meet. He’s barely any taller than Ryder, though Ryder has to strain to keep the gaze.  
  
“I don’t--” Ryder croaks, stumbles over his words. “I never wanted you to die.” It’s reluctant, the ways he says it, but he means it.  
  
Reyes understands, he chuckles. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”  
  
Ryder huffs, weakly. “It isn’t.”

He said plenty of nicer things. And a lot worse too. Did, a lot worse. And Reyes has just spent weeks taking care of him, though he could run at any time. Ryder doesn’t want to think about his gentle hands, but the impression of them is burned into his skin.  
  
“I am sorry,” Ryder’s mouth says, and for a second, they are both stunned into silence.  
  
Reyes shrugs off the surprise and shakes his head. His lips curve into a loop-sided smile. “For what?”  
  
“Everything.” There’s more Ryder should say, still more than he wants to add, but the way Reyes looks at him makes him forget every word.  
  
Reyes touches his waist, the gesture appears purposeless, vague enough that Ryder has to second-guess its intention. His heartbeat skyrockets, beating in his chest like a war drum. “Are you trying to seduce me?” He jokes, gives a weak laugh, then takes a step away. Reyes moves with him.   
  
“Is it working?”  
  
Yes. “No?” He doesn’t sound so sure.  
  
Reyes stands so close, their chests touch. He just tilts his head a bit and their lips meet. It’s chaste, barely a kiss.  
  
“And now?” He breathes out against Ryder’s lips.  
  
Ryder’s eyes widen. “You--” he starts, doesn’t quite know how to finish that.  
  
Reyes doesn’t move away, his eyes twinkle. “We kissed,” he says, easy. “Do you want to talk about it?” he teases. “We can,” he adds, closing the distance again, “or we could--”  
  
He moves for another kiss, Ryder shifts, just an inch and both of their omni-tools ping at the time.  
  
Ryder startles a step, Reyes groans.   
  
The signal is back. 

Before the embarrassment has a chance to strike, Ryder’s comm rings again. An incoming call.

He picks up, a little too eagerly. “Yes?”

“I spy...” the answering voice rumbles into his earpiece. “A lost, little duck.”

“Well, hello there,” Ryder beams, turning a blind eye on the pet name. Just this once.

Reyes turns his head sharply, raising one brow in a silent question. Ryder does his best to dodge the gaze, he points a hand at the vehicle, growing in the distance.

“You in trouble?” Bain asks, faint, over the sound of his rover. He’s not far now, the sound of running engine rips through the silence like a clap of thunder.

“Me?” Ryder glimpses down, at his bloodied shirt then back up. “Never.”

Bain laughs, low and throaty. “Need a ride?”

“I won’t say no.” 

The rover nears, Ryder’s comm clicks off. Reyes tenses. 

“It’s a friend,” Ryder reassures. Reyes doesn’t look convinced.

The vehicle decelerates sharply, sending mounds of sand flying around before halting diagonally in front of them. The doors slide up and Bain exits from the driver’s side, leaving the engine on.

“Hey, Ducky,” he winks at Ryder then spares Reyes half-a-glance, greeting him with a grin that shows way too many teeth. “Vidal.”

“Massani,” Reyes returns the nod but not the smile. He doesn’t offer his hand for a handshake either, instead he steps further to the side. His arm brushes against Ryder’s casually, as he breathes out and releases the tension in his shoulders. If Bain’s arrival alarms him, he masks himself well.

”Your guys are looking for you,” Bain informs offhandedly. How he knows that remains a secret because that’s all he says before shifting his focus back to Ryder. ”Taking a break? What’s up?”

“I had a run-in with the locals,” Ryder explains, grins when Bain looks pointedly at Reyes, who busies himself fiddling with his omni-tool, contacting his people, idly looking through reports, no doubt still listening to their conversation, albeit with one ear only. “Nah, raiders.”

Bain shrugs. Same thing. “Got ambushed?” Ryder bobs his head. “And then what?”

“Little Mouse.”

Bain whistles, impressed. The sound resounds through the valley, echoes. “Raiders and then junkies, you don’t mess around.”

“But that’s not all,” Ryder sighs. He wishes they had the datapad with them so he could show Bain the photos. Shame he didn’t copy them to his omni-tool. “The group that attacked us, they had kett weapons on them. New ones. I’ve never seen those before.”

“Fuckers,” Bain swears under his breath. “You think they’re working with the Primus?”

It’s not unlikely. The thing is, nobody heard anything from the kett since Archon’s death, nothing, not a peep for months. Save for one incident, nine months ago. The Primus was holed up in the Valay system, orbiting around Pas-16. The confrontation didn't go well, for both sides, and she’s been hiding ever since.

“Your best bet is to contact Medrow,” Bain says shortly, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. “He might know something.”

Aden Madrow, the salarian doctor whose ambitions contributed to the capture of the salarian ark. A despicable man. The necessity of getting in touch with him sours Ryder’s mood. “We were hoping to reach Isabel first.”

“Halsey? Good luck with that.”

“She’s still gone?” Ryder gapes, drawing his lower lip between his teeth anxiously.

“And she’ll stay that way, knowing her.” He crosses his arms over his chest, unconcerned. Reyes doesn’t comment so he must have already read about it in one of his updates. “So,” Bain jumps from one topic to another. “If you’re right and these attacks have something to do with kett, you can count me in.” Reyes’ forehead creases. Bain doesn’t miss it. His eyes narrow. “It’s that a problem?”

Reyes doesn’t look up from his omni-tool but he knows he’s spoken to. “Not at all,” he says and it does sound almost cheery. “The more the merrier.” 

“Nice of you. I’d _love_ to work with Scott again.” Bain smirks at whatever grimace flashes on Reyes’ face. It’s gone when Ryder glances his way. “Where you’re headed? The outpost?”

“Flophouse,” Reyes says, in what is almost a command.

Bain looks at Ryder first, for confirmation, and when he gets it, he shrugs. “Fine by me.” He inclines his head towards the rover. “Well, fellas, jump in.” He doesn’t wait for them, climbing back into his seat, hands falling on the console.

Ryder moves to follow him into the passenger seat but an insistent arm around his shoulders guides him towards the back seat instead. “Ducky?” Reyes whispers the words straight into his ear, the small hairs on the back of Ryder’s neck stand up.

“Oh, don’t you start,” he hisses, face burning up. He pushes past Reyes, ducking under his hand and squeezes himself near the window.

The doors close, the handle bites into his hip. Reyes’ thigh rests against his, burning.


	5. This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, if I fuck it up again and mess these fuckers names, switching them around, please tell me so I don't have to die of sheer embarrassment later on when I proof-read this shit. I sweat to god, I go over my writing million times and still I find some mistakes I didn't catch earlier, am I dum or what, ugh. :0 Like an apostrophe instead of a quotation mark fck sometimes I regret posting my fics, like they’re so unprofessional but then again it’s just a fanfic, not a novel, nobody's expecitng a masterpiece here, now do they? But tell that to my anxiety agh, hate that, let me tell you. So, again, if you can, tell me and I'll fix it, whatever it is. Thanks, bye.

“Does that mean I can go?” 

Regardless of the incoming answer, Ryder readies himself to leave the office, jumping down from the table he’s been sitting on for the last twelve minutes. His vitals are good, great even, his side doesn’t trouble him any more, though the large scar on his stomach didn’t heal nicely - it’s still raised and scarlet, the skin here tender to the touch.

“You can go,” the Collective’s doctor confirms, briefly looking up from his datapad. An official clearance, at last. Maybe it will stop Reyes from treating Ryder like he’s made of glass. “For future reference,” the man drones flatly, taking off his latex gloves with a snap, “try to refrain from fighting without proper armor.”

A smart-ass, what a surprise. It seems nowadays the Collective drafts anyone who can run their mouth. “And what makes a proper armor against an ancient Remnant laser about which we know absolutely nothing aside from that it’s deadly, doctor?”

“It was just a suggestion.” The datapad returns on its usual place in the middle of the desk, the screen flashes off. Ryder catches a quick glimpse; his name in the subject line of the message. An update. “If you have any lingering pains in two weeks--”

“I am to find you, yes, I remember,” Ryder repeats for what feels like the hundredth time this month, pulling his shirt over his head, dressing haphazardly. There, now he’s ready to go. “Is that all?” 

“Yes,” the doctor sighs. He makes a vague shooing gesture and Ryder doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out of the room in a flash.

The dimly lit corridors shine with the coldness of well-worn steel, the slippery tiles rattle under Ryder’s heels as he marches down the stairs and into the glassed command center. The agents he passes nod to him in greeting, though neither stops him in his track. It should surprise Ryder more than it does, the lack of antipathy, the ease with which he was welcomed among the Collective, after everything that transpired on Kadara. How effortlessly it came to him to treat the Flophouse as something akin to a home. 

He’s learned the base by heart now - he’s not even pretending it's only self-preservation at this point. He can find his way around blindly. He knows the patrol routes and Reyes’ schedule for the day. So it doesn’t take much at all to find him. His office is just past the hall, near the common room. First turn to the left and there he is, just as Ryder predicted, in the long hallway, with his nose buried in a report.

“Reyes!” Yelling his name, Ryder quickens his tempo. “I’ve been given the all-clear,” he announces with a huge grin when they come face-to-face.

He’s under no delusion that his improved condition somehow escaped Reyes’ notice, the updates from the doctor aside. Still, Reyes has the good grace to pretend otherwise. “Oh?” He hides the datapad in his back pocket, half-fitting it inside. “Right on cue.” 

“That so?”

“We found Medrow’s hideout, here, on Elaaden. Nice of him to save us the trouble, hmm?”

Nice doesn’t even cover it. Ryder’s been pretty furious to learn that the salarian doctor broke free from his cell on Nexus and vanished from the face of the galaxy for four whole weeks. It wasn’t a surprise, per se, shifty bastards like Medrow don’t stay locked up for long. Unfortunately.

“Barret and his men are surveying the area,” Reyes reassures, correctly guessing Ryder’s thoughts. “We’ll know if he tries to sneak out.”

Medrow might be watched but who’s to say the Collective’s going to fare better at keeping the tabs on the salarian and his henchmen than the Initiative did? Ryder’s ready to say as much when Reyes decides to effectively cut him off.

In a slow, deliberate movement, Reyes fixes the collar of Ryder’s shirt, fitting it so it lays centered instead of askew over Ryder’s collarbones. He brushes out the deep wrinkle, slides his fingers over the cotton as though he can’t decide if he wants to smooth out the material or rumple it even more. Probably the second one, judging by the lopsided smirk that graces his face. 

Ryder clears his throat, glancing nervously at the entrance. They are not alone - a couple of agents hang around, with their backs to the hallway. But if they turn, they will be given a front-row seat to the discomfort of seeing their _esteemed_ leader fondling Ryder in the full view of the room.

“Should we pay him a visit?” Reyes asks, indifferent to the volume of his voice, the way it carries and echoes against the walls.

They didn’t have a chance to be entirely alone since they...well. After Bain took them to the Flophouse, Ryder’s been mostly bed-ridden and Reyes, in the wake of weeks of absence had to catch up with all his duties, working for days, barely leaving his office. It’s only fair that Ryder forgot how frustrating dealing with Reyes can be.

One of the agents moves, standing from his seat and stretching. Ryder eyes him with caution. He hums, following the guy’s movements closely.

“You sure? You seem busy.” Reyes manages to sound equally impatient and amused and the change in his tone brings Ryder back to the conversation. He stops his surveillance and shifts his attention to Reyes, who’s nursing a half-stiffed laugh.

“What?”

“Medrow, Scott,” Reyes repeats. “Do you want to get him?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then let me get my gear and we can go.” Reyes winds his arm around Ryder’s shoulders, most likely to bodily guide him the rest of the way to the office. His plans, however, are interrupted by a shout. 

“Boss!” 

Reyes, and by proximity Ryder, are finally noticed. The agents jump from their seats like a bunch of children found with their hands in a cookie jar. Ryder recoils, shrugging Reyes’ shoulder off. His back hits the nearby wall with a dull bang, in a haste to put some distance between them. Reyes tsks, like it’s all just a bother to him, but he doesn’t try to stop Ryder. 

“I’ll wait by the rover,” Ryder mutters, before Reyes can spin the web and somehow persuade him to stay. He takes his leave, retracing his steps. The muffled echo of Reyes’ voice follows him down, and when it’s gone, his touch lingers, persistent.

Bain’s already outside, chain-smoking. There are about six, maybe seven buds laying around, half-buried in the sand, by his feet. He must have been there for the better part of the morning. His eyes are on Ryder as soon as he spots him coming out of the Flophouse. He puffs the cigarette twice, exhales a thick sleeve of smoke. “Where’d you lose Vidal?” 

“No idea,” Ryder raises his shoulders stiffly. He declines with a shake of the head when Bain sticks a pack of cigarettes under his nose. “He’s doing stuff.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Bain flicks the fag on the ground but keeps the pack close on hand, leaning against the rover, getting comfortable as if he’s expecting to remain here for a while. And rightly so.

After half an hour of waiting, three finished cigarettes and a bathroom break later, Ryder’s patience is starting to run thin. Bain thumbs the pack open. Ryder groans. “We’ve finally found a lead and he’s off doing who knows what!” 

Bian blinks back at Ryder, the cigarette forgotten. “The fuck you mean ‘finally’, we’ve got the coordinates two weeks ago.” 

“Two weeks? But Reyes said--”

Snorting a sharp laugh, Bain stacks the cigarette behind his ear, for later. “Your _boyfriend_ wanted to wait until you recover.”

“No, he didn’t,” Ryder quips before the whole meaning can sink in. “And he’s not my boyfriend,” he adds, quieter.

“Sure.” Bain doesn’t sound so convinced. He waves a hand around, pointing at Ryder then at the base. “Whatever you want to call it.”

“Call what? There’s nothing between us.”

Alright, so, maybe Reyes sits next to Ryder, real close, in the mess, maybe he watches him sometimes, gaze piercing and intense. They kissed. Big deal. Reyes kisses a lot of people, surely. But there’s nothing to it. Absolutely nothing of consequence. 

“Just saying,” Bain shrugs, nonchalant, “there’s a lot of posturing for a guy who’s _not_ into you.”

“Why are we even talking about this?” Ryder whispers, glancing over to the Flophouse. When he’s sure they are still alone, he hisses, “there’s nothing between us, we’re just friends. No, not even friends, we’re allies. Allies, alright?” Great, because that doesn’t sound suspicious at all. “We joined forces, temporary. And once it’s over, we’ll go our separate ways,“ he babbles on, digging himself deeper. He just can’t make himself stop. ”And it will all be done.”

“What will be done?” Of all moments, Reyes finds this particular one to make an appearance. He strides closer without a care in the world, carrying a large backpack, stuffed to the brim. He looks at Ryder questioningly, though there’s no saying how much he could’ve heard.

“Nothing,” Ryder snaps, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, “if you keep dilly-dallying like that.” 

“Patience, Scott.“ Reyes chides, albeit good-naturedly. He moves the backpack from his left hand to his right and throws it at Ryder, who catches it instantly.

It’s heavier than it looks, all sharp angles sticking out of the dark mix of Cordura and plain cotton. Reyes looks expectant so Ryder decides not to stretch it and goes for the zipper. Whatever he might have expected, it wasn’t that. 

The bag contains only one item; a shiny chest plate, double-coated with black paint that hides the traces of standard violet of the Heleus Icon piece, ranged XIII. It’s by far more advanced than the one Ryder used - and destroyed - while fighting the Archon. Though, how Reyes put his hands on the prototype will remain a mystery.

“Suit up,” Reyes says, apparently satisfied with Ryder’s silent awe. He pries the empty backpack out of Ryder’s limp hand and throws it into the rover, then takes a seat, in the back.

Bain snorts, slapping Ryder on the back as he brushes past him. “Told you.” 

The nudge sends Ryder stumbling a step, both arms wrapped tightly around the chest plate. It rouses him effectively and he scrambles to fasten the straps around himself. “Thank you,” he addresses Reyes as soon as he’s inside, sliding into the seat next to him. “How did you even--”

Reyes’ grin turns wolfish. Right. So it was either bought for an outrageous sum or stolen. The piece is custom-made, so he had to plan it for a while. “Consider it an investment,” he discloses, bumping his knee against Ryder’s.

“Oh?”

“Be sure not to die and we’ll be even.”

“Oh.” That’d be harder than just paying it off. Not that Ryder has a lot of credits to his name, not after leaving the Nexus. “Well, then I’ll try to do my best.”

“We’ve all seen your best.” The Roekaar, the Archon. And everything in between that goes without saying. “I like the odds.”

Bain shots them a wry look in the back-view mirror that Ryder’s adamant to ignore for the duration of the drive at last “Do you need me to drive?” He seeps through his teeth when Bain refuses to relent. God knows what he’s thinking to himself right now, but it can’t be pretty.

“So you can trash my baby? No thanks.”

“Then focus on the goddamned road, how about that?” He says calmly, although it is a calm he does not feel.

“Aye, aye, whatever you say, Little Duck.” Bain lets out a huff of quiet laughter, amused by his own antics. But, thank fuck, he focuses on the console and starts paying attention to the road, guiding the rover smoothly over the irregular mounds of sand, whistling to himself, absorbed, at last, in the task ahead. 

Reyes' body tenses and Ryder feels it against his arm, acutely, catches the moment Reyes reaches for his datapad. He taps the screen and keeps it in one hand. The other, he rests squarely on top of Ryder’s thigh. The knuckle brushes slightly, side to side, more an absentminded tick than conscious action. Ryder lets it happen. He twists his head to the left, watches the landscape as the vehicle flies through the sand. It’d be easy to get used to that. Too easy.

The rover changes its course mid-way to the Paradise, turning northwest and further into the outback. The land is completely barren here, bracketed by the Sea of Ataraxia, nothing but a range of sand and pale sky blurring into one.

At once it occurs to Ryder, that he never really asked where Medrow’s hideout is. The thought didn’t even cross his mind. Before the incident, SAM was the one who took care of everything, and it was easy to leave the logistics to him. But now, without the AI, Ryder’s gotten used to relying on the knowledge of other people, perhaps overly so. It’s too late to play twenty questions now, without making an idiot out of himself, so he keeps quiet, staring out of the window, restless.

The monotonous dunes of the horizon are broken eventually. The monumental derelict Remnant ship reveals itself midst of the heat haze like a distant mirage.

“Hell's Promise?” Ryder asks, eyeing the construction. Even after all this time, it still looks imposing.

“Right under our nose.”

Clever, but not at all surprising. 

The biggest disadvantage of living in the desert is that everyone sees you coming from a mile away. Not ideal if you’re trying to launch a full-scale attack. It’s terrible for stealth, too, unless your target happens to be both blind and deaf. Which Medrow isn’t. If he didn’t know somebody was coming for him, he definitely does now.

After the thorough clean up Ryder did in his search for the drive core, the ship sits disabled. Mostly disabled. If the self-repairing protocols are still active, there’s a high possibility they might stumble across a few of the Remnant turrets, fixed and running. 

Bain parks his rover near the entrance to the downed ship. As soon as both of his hands are off the console he’s slipping his gun from the holster, clicking off the safety. Ryder’s fast to follow suit, eyes darting around as he treads into the tunnel. 

“Step carefully,” he says, low, “and watch out for the Remnants.” They’re hard to destroy _and_ bloody annoying.

The silence that rings inside is eerie, deafening. The constructions glimmer with blue-green lights, shining like beacons in the shadows. The piles of sand are smoothed out, baring no sign of footsteps or disturbance. Reyes looks around with an expression of deep thought on his face, most likely searching for an escape route or hidden entrances. 

Stepping over the sand, they walk past the active console. The passage is unlocked just as Ryder left if. The air is chillier here, fresh. Ryder brushes the hair out of his eyes, feeling the sweat on the back of his neck cool off. The door to the second room opens noiselessly, light flickering on. Ryder shifts, lightning-fast, one arm outstretching to bar the entrance. 

“What--”

“Shh,” Ryder hushes Bain up, eyes fixed on a Remnant unit - the Progenitor, bathed in the neon blue light. 

It’s one of the infamous, heavy-weapon platforms that are known to wreak havoc, taking out entire squads in minutes. Ryder fought against them less often than people would like to believe and each time, SAM urged him to seek a different course, adamant to assure that engagement is not recommended. And he was right each time, Ryder has scars enough to prove it.

The Remnant moves over the bridge, scanning the terrain. Around him float three Observers, passive, but no less deadly. Their receptors don’t catch the intruders yet, but they will, no doubt about it. The turret bars the only passageway, and the fight seems inevitable, if highly ill-advised. They have to momentum on their side, if nothing else. They can use it to their advantage.

Drawing on the biotic, Ryder raises a hand, opens his palm, ready to strike. Before he can do much of anything, Reyes catches him by the wrist. “Here,” he whispers, right into his ear. He tugs Ryder a step, fingers digging into his arm so hard Ryder can feel the pressure through the layers of his clothing. Without moving his hand, Reyes turns them both around, pointing at a nook, carved into a wall on the right.

The passage is small, well-hidden and newly-made, tall enough to fit a human comfortably, though most likely made with a salarian in mind. It narrows into a confined tunnel, going straight, barely wide enough for them to pass, one after another. Eventually, they emerge on the other side, in a large, dimly-lit area Ryder recognizes, full of Remnant tech, spread out over the ground in heaps.

Reyes sweeps his eyes over the treasure with curiosity. “Could get a nice deal of credits for all that on Kadara,” he says, regarding the raw material. “If you know who’s willing to pay for it.” He says it in jest, the comment wholly harmless in nature. But he sounds so far away; always does when the subject of Kadara comes up. Peculiarly soft, with a kind of wistfulness he's not able to tamp down completely.

Ryder can see the tension in Reyes’ body, the sudden rigidness of it. His expression, of course, doesn’t change. It stays neutral, maybe a little apathetic. Ryder still knows the small tells, though, remembers how to read Reyes between the lines. It’s not right time to reminiscent, and there’s nothing Ryder can do, to ease the choking guilt. So he looks down at his hands, tongue-tied. 

“Everything sells well on the black market,” Bain huffs, ignoring both the tension and the cluttered scrap in favor of surveying the area in front of them, squinting his eyes against the shadows. He clenches his gun tighter, one finger resting steadily on the trigger. “Maybe when we’re done with--”

Something moves, near the entrance. A bright, red dot flashes on the scope of a rifle, a second before a shot cuts through the silence. “Shit!” Bain curses, ducking under the heavy fire that follows.

A group of mercenaries dressed slightly better than a bunch of badlands raiders guards the locked door. Their weapons are standard, cheap junkers made of salvaged metal scraps, nothing like the enhanced Remnant lasers. The rounds bounce off Ryder’s shield like marble balls.

“Fuck, really?” Bain laughs when one of the raiders lurches at him. He bashes the butt-end of his gun into the man’s head with a loud bang, and once more, into the base of his neck, near the hem of the armor, cracking the spine with a well-landed punch. “That’s all the security he can afford?”

“Apparently.” Ryder bares his teeth in a smile. He missed this; the rush, the fighting, the adrenaline. The air around him heavy with eezo. He promised to take it slow, easy. And he does. He doesn’t run, head-first, doesn’t charge, sticks to attacking from the distance. 

Reyes is unusually quiet. It’s strange, since he never knows when to shut his mouth, not even when he’s in danger, or, perhaps especially, when he is.

“Reyes?” Ryder calls his name, but there’s no answer. The shouting is loud, the sound of gunshot thunderous, it might’ve drowned out Reyes’ response, so Ryder whirls around, staring at the place Reyes stood in not a moment ago. It’s empty, and Reyes is gone. “Reyes!” He screams out, before he can think twice about it, high and panicked. 

Without looking back, he sends a shockwave sliding rapidly along the floor. He hears the moans of pain as the raiders stumble, pushed back against the wall. The structure trembles from the impact, but Ryder pays no mind to it, taking a step towards the tunnel and stopping dead in his track. 

“No.”

The Progenitor emerges from the shadows of the tunnel, unfolding, spreading back into its full form, flanked by the floaters. A dark, thick liquid drips down its cannon, splattering on the tiles. The unit stalks towards Ryder, slowly at first, then gaining in speed. It doesn’t recoil when Ryder feeds it a round of biotic lances, doesn’t even flinch.

“Ryder!” Bain snarls, his hold on the weapon unfaltering, even as the heatsink swelters, burning his fingers. His barrier cracks, glimmers against the continuous onslaught.

Ryder has a second to turn back, right as the door slides with an ear-piercing hiss. He’s torn, glancing from the approaching turret to the wave of raiders, swarming through the entrance. The Progenitor doesn’t wait for Ryder to make up his mind. Its canon rises, whizzes, ready to blast.

Ryder stares. His pulse drums painfully, palpable in the arteries of his neck, moving under his skin, like a flood. It lasts for barely a millisecond, but he stands, stiffly, off-kilter, with hands hanging uselessly at his sides. He can’t think, can’t focus. He needs to move, needs to _act_ , but Reyes--

The room explodes with white, blinding light. The boom more like a single shotgun than a thunderclap, barely distinguishable from the uproar of the fight. The entire ship shakes, but the structure holds. A cacophony of noise reverberates instantaneously, tumultuous and harsh.

The floor shifts from under Ryder’s feet, as he is pushed out of the way and tackled to the ground. His vision fills with a speck of light, blurs against the acrid vapor and dense fumes. His breath leaves his lungs in a rush, as his back meets the ground, gentle, the fall cushioned by a pair of hands, clasped surely around his shoulders.

The silence is unnatural, interrupted by the sizzling of flames that quickly douses, wanes. The stench of copper and melted metal covers up the acridness of chemicals, the mix of scents burns unpleasantly. Through the ringing in his ears, Ryder hears the distant sound of Bain cursing. It’s not pained, just a bit ticked off. It soothes Ryder more than it probably should.

“Just like the old times, heh?” Reyes’ voice is barely audible, though his face is just an inch from Ryder’s own. 

The tinny ringing in Ryder’s ears lessens to a dull, faint buzzing. He blinks against the smoke. Dazed, from the earlier fright, he runs his eyes over Reyes. He’s still in one piece, down to the usual insufferable smirk on his awfully handsome face. The blood on the turret’s cannon must have belonged to one of the raiders.

“...could have told me to drop,” Ryder rasps, pressing his palms flat to the ground, least his desire to reach out wins. His throat is tight, eyes stinging, wide and startled. He looks past Reyes’ shoulder, unable to stand the weight of the focused gaze on himself. 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Ryder pushes himself up to his elbows, shoving Reyes off himself. “That was...” Stupid. Unnecessary. Brilliant. It went better than Ryder expected, that much he has to admit. “Something.”

It isn’t exactly a compliment, but Reyes grins all the same. He absolutely oozes self-satisfaction. “It worked though. Besides--”

“Guys.” Bain pulls the trigger back and the sound of the gunshot bellows out. His gun recoils, jumping backward from the force of the lead ripping from its muzzle. The last raider falls to his knees, knocked flat in the dirt among his comrades, with a neat hole, right between his eyes. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

“That’s why you’re here, no?”

“Designated driver,” Bain sighs, then repeats once more, this time entirely to himself. “Designated driver, my ass.” He slants against the wall, fiddling with the cigarette behind his ear. A feat that he didn’t lose it, after all that fighting. 

Reyes jumps to his feet, his lips twist like he's holding back a comment. He offers Ryder a hand, to pull him up. Ryder takes it, unconsciously, and regrets it as soon as their fingers meet. “You--” Reyes starts, feeling the tremor of Ryder’s body, the way it quivers; the heartbeat through the skin of his palm, rapid and panicked.

Ryder rips his hand away, hides it behind his back as if it could change anything. “Come on,” he says before Reyes can ask him about it. There isn’t a good enough excuse to cover up the panic that Ryder still cannot shake off. “Bain,” he calls, brushing past the men, watching the dying flames, the scorched bodies, searching for any sign of another survivor but finding nothing. He stops in front of the entrance, now, closed again. He remembers the room as an empty storage-like area, with no other way in, and no other way out. “Be on a lookout,” he says, to no one in particular, “I am going in.”

There’s a loud noise coming from inside, as if in answer to his words. A gunshot maybe, then dead silence. The door opens without trouble, revealing Dr. Medrow Aden in the middle, hands held up, above his head. One of them is covered in burns, the cuff of his light jumpsuit splattered with thin, greenish blood. A handgun lies by his feet, but not in surrender. Whomever he expected to shoot at, them or himself, the gun backfired, blowing up in his hand. 

Reyes, who apparently followed after Ryder, steps ahead of him, keeping his gun aimed straight at the salarian’s head. It seems like the guard duty fell to Bain. And maybe for the best. He’s a little... trigger happy, most likely to shot a kett collaborator point-blank.

“Pathfinder Ryder. Unsurprising. I expected to--”

“Save your breath, Medrow. You know why we’re here.” 

Medrow nods, slowly. “I do. As you know why I couldn’t stay on Nexus, couldn’t give up the others. I cannot go back, you have to understand. The information I found about The Primus is very troubling, dangerous.”

The Primus? Reluctantly, Ryder places a hand on top of Reyes’, lowers the weapon a bit. “What do you mean?”

The doctor keeps his hands up, though the muscles of his arms relax visibly. “Resurrection,” he blinks, swallowing thickly. “Of sorts. She uses the bodies. Deceased bodies, mostly human.”

Dead bodies, dressed up in armor so that they’re indistinguishable from normal raiders and therefore, above suspicion. Jesus Christ. It makes sense, disgusting as it is. The unusual precision, the coordination. And Ryder thought exaltation was bad enough. 

“How?”

“Brain stimulation. The restoration and production of cellular functions are, to an extent, possible, post-mortem. They don't regain electrical activity, not fully, at last, though somehow they still show awareness, if not complete consciousness. There’s... a theory. If we could test one of the bodies, we would know more.”

“And the weapons?”

“That... we are not sure of, yet. Where they acquired the equipment. Meos system, most likely. More data needed.“

“Lots of things you don’t know, doctor,” Reyes’s tone is loaded. He cranes his neck, looking the salarian up and down, mocking. “Was it worth the hassle?”

“I can’t continue my search in jail,” Madrow bristles but after a quick glance down the barrel of Reyes’ gun, he deflates, losing the attitude. “We can't be sure of their intentions, Ryder, you, of all people, should know what they are capable of. There's more we don't know, more still we can learn; more we _need_ to learn if we want to survive in this galaxy. We can't allow--"

“We? No. You had your chance.” That bastard. He cannot possibly think after all he had done Ryder would let him roam free. It doesn’t matter how valuable his research is. Ryder defeated the Archon without his help, and he will deal with the Primus the same way. “You’ll go with--”

“A counter-offer,” Reyes cuts in, smoothly, ostentatiously sliding his gun back to its holster. “Join the Collective. Do your work on our terms and we’ll take care of your safety. You have my word.”

Ryder’s jaw closes with a click. Reyes’ word. That’s a good one. 

“And if I refuse?”

Reyes shrugs, jutting his chin in Ryder’s direction. The stony expression finishes the sentence for him.

“I--” Medrow’s eyes flicker between the two of them, eventually settling back on Reyes, the lesser of two evils. “Yes,” he agrees, unenthusiastically. “I’ll help.”

“Good choice.” With a fleeting, pleased smile, Reyes turns his head, leans out of the doorway and calls out, “Bain? Get our new friend out of here. Barret should be waiting outside.” 

Bain, with his large posture and the residual scowl, makes for a perfect intimidation element. Medrow blanches, as soon as he sees him and follows complacently, urged by the muzzle pressed encouragingly against the back of his head. Bain walks out after him, sending an apologetic look Ryder’s way. It’s just about money, for him, Ryder doesn’t hold that against him.

“He’s a criminal, Reyes, in case it escaped your notice!” Ryder seethes, not waiting for the salarian to get out of earshot. “We need to get him back on Nexus.” 

“So he can escape again? Think, Scott. We can keep him under wraps, and with the Initiative breathing on his neck, he won’t even think of fleeing. It’s a win-win,” Reyes argues, put upon by the lack of Ryder’s cooperation. “I thought you wanted his help?” 

“Not like that.”

“Look, I have a plan.” Of course, he does. “Trust me, okay?”

Ryder laugh mirthlessly, eyes blazing. His hands squeeze into fists, heart speeding up to a gallop, this time from frustration, not worry. 

Reyes and his fucking plans. Even now, he does everything to be contrary. Keeping secrets, never sharing the truth until he’s backed into a corner. _Trust me_ , he says. And God damn him, but Ryder does. The blood splattered on the cannon is still fresh in his mind, the thought of something happening to Reyes is-- No. Ryder can’t stay here, arguing about something he can’t be bothered to care about. “Alright,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around himself, “whatever.” 

Clearly, it’s not what Reyes hoped to hear, because he grabs Ryder’s forearm when he tries to leave, brings him back. “Since when do you give up so easily?” 

“Since now.” 

“I don’t think so.” Looming closer, Reyes slides his hand higher, wraps it even tighter around Ryder’s arm. “What’s going on?” 

Ryder lets out a harsh breath at the sudden proximity. His heart skips, falling down to the bottom of his stomach in dread. He wants to break free of the touch, but he’s caught, wilting under Reyes’ intent gaze, the solid weight pressed closely against him.

“Nothing, I--” With the lie, ready on the tip of his tongue, Ryder’s saved from using it by the sound of approaching footsteps, combat boot shuffling on the tiles. 

Shortly after, Bain reappears in the doorway, an unlit cigarette sticking out of his mouth. “I got the bastard in the rover,” he starts, brows jumping high up his forehead. His voice is almost sheepish, but he leans against the frame, not backing up. “Barret’s keeping him company.” 

Reyes doesn’t look from Ryder, doesn’t acknowledge Bain further than giving him a stilled nod. His hold on Ryder’s arm tightens. Likewise, Ryder can’t break the staring contest, can’t look away. He sees the slow, deep breath, the movement of Reyes’ throat as he swallows. 

Bain coughs, hesitating briefly before speaking again. “Isabel’s back in her camp.”

The information is like a bucket of cold water, bringing Ryder back to earth. He pushes himself away, ducking under Reyes’ arm. “Let's go then,” he replies, voice tight, breathless. “Before she disappears on us again.”

Bain appears distantly amused, falling in step with Ryder without a word. Reyes is not so easily deterred. “We’re not done here.”

“We are now. “ 

“I said--”

Oh, fuck it all. Who does Reyes think he is, jerking Ryder around like that? “You’re not _my_ boss, Reyes,” Ryder barks without turning back, stepping over the downed Remnant, the charred bodies. 

He needs to leave, and he needs to do it now, before he does something he’ll definitely regret.


	6. Our revels now are ended

Isabel’s cave seems a bit... tidier than it was the last time Ryder’s been in here. More secured. The entrance is guarded by a group of heavily-armed raiders but they greet Reyes by name and he and Ryder luck out and get inside without an incident. Which is the easy part.

“What’s an Initiative’s dog doing in my camp?” Back with the name-calling, Isabel’s eyes settle on Ryder as soon as she sees him walking inside her workshop. She holds a gun tightly in her hand, leveling the muzzle straight at his head.

Before the situation can escalate, Reyes, with his usual swagger, steps in front of Ryder, both of his hands raised half an inch in mock surrender. “Now, now, Isabel, why so hostile?”

“I’ve heard somebody’s been looking for me,” Isabel shrugs, laying down the weapon and wiping the grease off her fingers on her pants. “Could’ve said it’s you. What’s going on?”

Reyes takes out the datapad, shifting into her space with ease, pausing close enough that their elbows touch. Isabel leans over the photograph and frowns. “Nah, first time I‘m seeing something like that.” She zeroes on the handle, slides her finger over the screen. “Fancy. I’ll get back to you if I find something.”

Ryder averts his eyes, looks around the room, trying to quiet down the traitorous part of his brain that makes him feel like an intruder, suddenly out of place. He has to admit though, that they do look good together, fitting in a way Ryder never could, his former occupation aside.

Reyes smiles, that slow, mile-long smirk that sits like a stone in the pit of Ryder’s stomach, worse now that it’s directed at someone else. “Thanks,” he says, hiding the pad, movements slow, unhurried. “Be sure to do that.”

Isabel tilts back, rests her hands on the table behind her, checking Reyes ostentatiously. She has to like what she sees because she smirks back. “You gonna stay for a while?” She asks, completely ignoring Ryder’s presence.

Reyes, for one, turns his head, trying to catch Ryder’s attention. For what, Ryder can only guess. And he doesn't like any of the options. He stares at the opposite wall, sliding his eyes over the cracks in the stone, furrowing his brows in a way his friends say he always does when listening to SAM. Or, well, he always did.

“We--”

Ryder doesn’t need to hear that. “I’ll call Bain,” he mumbles, moving away, ready to leave. But he makes only two steps before a steady hand rests on his back. It’s just a friendly pat, as Reyes brushes past him, ruffling his hair next, quick and soft.

“Why don’t _I_ call him,” he says, more an information than a proposition since his omni-tool is already on before he exits the room, leaving Ryder gaping at his back, stunned.

“Always leaving, that one. All work and no play.” Isabel doesn’t look concerned, but she watches Ryder a bit differently now, calculating. “Insufferable, hmm?” Her new-found not-quite-cordiality raises all the hairs on Ryder’s body. He much preferred her indifference.

He doesn’t let it affect him, forcing his signature smile back in place. “Thank for the help,” he mutters, proud of the steady tone he manages to keep, before he hurries down the stairs, leaving the workshop behind. He lets out a little noise of irritation, his walk more of a stalk than a steady stride.

Reyes stands with his back to the entrance, unconcerned, or maybe uncaring about a possible attack. Ryder catches the ending of the conversation, Bain voice rasping, “yeah, sure,” and the ping of the dial cutting off. They are alone here, though they can clearly hear the racket of heavy-machinery and shoes marching on stone coming from afar.

“He’s on his way,” Reyes informs, waiting on Ryder to match his position, then he raises a single brow in question, noticing the grimace on Ryder’s face.

“New girlfriend?” Ryder asks casually and regrets it immediately.

“Why, Ryder,” Reyes says with a distinctly amused half-second quirk to this lips. “Are you jealous?”

Ryder’s answering snort reverberates throughout the cave, making the echoing noise terribly irritating. “You may want to get yourself in check, so it’s not another Zia situation.”

“Are you worried?”

“Worried?” As if. “I don’t give a fuck about you.”

“Just my luck,” Reyes chuckles, not wounded at all by the comment. “Guess I have bad taste.” He looks Ryder up and down, slowly, pointedly, to get his meaning across. “Will you still help me out though, if she wants to ambush me later? We can split the goods, 60/40, like the last time.”

“0/0 you mean. Still hadn’t got these credits.”

Reyes laughs. Then, his face goes soft and a little troubled. “Maybe this time will be different.” The way he says it, Ryder gets the distinctive picture that Reyes isn’t really talking about his ex.

He takes an abrupt step back without realizing it. Reyes watches him as he puts some distance between them, then he grins mischievously. It's a familiar look, but it rattles Ryder more now that it ever has before.

“Still mad about Medrow? We can give him up when he stops being useful.”

Just like he intends to _give up_ Ryder, once he has no use of him? It seems like a reoccurring pattern with Reyes. And Ryder should be ashamed of himself, for being so easily led. Because he doesn’t even care about the doctor anymore, not really.

Ryder crosses his arms and frowns. Reyes' continuous smile makes it harder to get the next words out. “Oh, really?”

“Really.” Whether he’s aware of the turmoil his words caused in Ryder’s head or not, Reyes chooses to disregard it, apparently done with the topic. He twists to face Ryder fully, and with a long, sure step, crowds him against the wall, all close and personal. It’s a common game they play; when Ryder takes a step back, Reyes takes two forward. “You once said I was someone to you.” It seems like a such non-sequitur but also like something inevitable. The question hovered over them for quite some time.

 _Unavoidable_.

The hot air becomes terribly suffocating all of a sudden, this scant space between them, only a breath wide, seems so terribly vast. Something will happen, something dangerous. Something bad. He just knows it. They’ve always been a disaster together, after all.

“Is it still true?”

It’s as far from what Ryder expected to hear as it could possibly get. “You remembered that?”

“More like I find it impossible to forget.”

Ryder was right, this is playing dirty.

His eyes flicker away, bashful. Before he realizes it, Reyes has a hand on his cheek, and he’s staring at him intensely. His eyes are warm but unmoving, cutting right through Ryder, like a sharp blade. He moves his finger over the thick scar that runs along Ryder’s jaw and disappears into his hair.

He doesn't ask and Ryder is glad for it. But it’s just small mercy on his part. His touch is scalding, against Ryder’s already overheated skin. He slides his palm lower, takes Ryder’s hand in his and places it on his own chest, over his heart. It drums, loud and fast. And it’s a declaration, right there, a vulnerably Ryder wasn’t expecting to see, wasn’t prepared for.

“It is,” Ryder breathes out, startled into obedience. But it is worth the smile that illuminates Reyes’ features, genuine and tender. “Still true.”

Reyes' eyes fall to his mouth, and Ryder lets it happen. It’s a dual sensation; Reyes’ lips against his, all chapped and dry, warm, and the pitter-patter of his heart, speeding up, pounding.

He lets Reyes kiss him against the wall of a raider den, all sweet and gentle, like it means something and Ryder thinks, _maybe it does_.

XXX

Ryder’s eyes are heavy, closing against the setting sun shining above the barricade Bain set up around the perimeter earlier. The soft whirring of turrets that guard the camp merges with the distant sound of snoring, coming out of the rover, where Bain naps, dead to the word.

For a long, drawn-out moment, Ryder’s tethered, on the verge of falling asleep, his head resting on Reyes’ shoulder. The uneven, prefabricated crate digs into his back and legs, but the discomfort is mild. Besides, he slept on worse. They sit here over an hour now, pressed together, arm in arm. But the rest doesn’t come. Nor does the peace.

It starts innocently enough, with Reyes’ hand on top of Ryder’s thigh, persistent. Ryder doesn’t think about it twice, used to it by now. He doesn’t have a reason to shake it off, doesn’t even want to. It doesn’t rouse him at all. Not until the hand starts to wander, leisurely.

Reyes’ expression is perfectly innocent when Ryder looks at him. But once their eyes meet, it’s impossible to look away. Reyes catches his gaze and holds it, eyes intense, focused. He trails a hand up the inside of Ryder’s thigh, skimming it over the front of Ryder’s pants, the seam of the zipper, tugging it open unceremoniously, and without hesitation sliding his hand inside.

“Reyes--”

Since that earlier kiss at the cave, Reyes has been giving Ryder heated looks for days, and now, after hours upon hours spent crammed into the back seat of a rover, Ryder’s tired of the tension. He’s sick of trying not to think about Reyes. Sick of pretending he doesn’t want him. And sick of feeling like he shouldn’t.

Not when Reyes presses soft, open-mouthed kisses against Ryder’s neck, holds him like he’s fragile. “Mhm?” He mutters, allowing Ryder two, deep breaths before pulling him closer, half-way over his lap. He nips at his bottom lip, quick and sharp, and Ryder's left visibly bereft when Reyes pulls away. “Do you want to stop?”

“N-no, I...” Ryder wraps his arm around Reyes, tightly, clutching at the fabric to keep him where he is. “I want...”

“Yeah?”

“I--”

“Like that?” Reyes’ hand shifts suddenly, fitting around Ryder’s groin, over the soft material of his underwear, with just the right amount of pressure. Ryder whimpers, an embarrassingly needy sound, stiffed by Reyes’ lips, pressed against his in a short, bruising kiss. “Or do you want more?”

“Yes,” Ryder whimpers, his shoulders strain, torn between pulling back and arching into the waiting hand. “Yes, I--” Reyes isn't even moving it, at first. It just lays there, impossibly warm. The thin cotton of Ryder’s pants leaves nothing to the imagination.

“What is it?”

Ryder scoffs, rolling his hips pointedly. It’s pretty obvious; Reyes has to know, even without his hand, pressed so closely against Ryder.

Reyes shakes his head, playing the fool. He rubs a finger over the damp spot, on the tip of Ryder’s cock, coaxing another groan out of him, teasing “Tell me.”

That asshole, honestly. “Come on,” Ryder mutters, face heating up. He squeezes his eyes, digs his nails into Reyes' arms so hard his fingers go white with the pressure.

“Look at me.”

Ryder shakes his head, almost wavers when he feels the waistband of his pants slip down with a snap, then a big, callused hand spreading the wetness across the length of his cock, from the top, right to the base, in quick, sure strokes.

“Scott.” Reyes tries again, his voice coming out closer than before, his breath hot, less than an inch from Ryder’s lips. “Do you want--”

“Yes, fuck!” Ryder snaps, hating the way his chest hitches. He opens his eyes, does as Reyes says. “Yes--”

Satisfied, Reyes seizes the moans out of Ryder’s tongue, swallows them down. As a reward for the compliance, he pulls Ryder’s cock out of his pants, then reaches into his own and does the same. He grasps both of them in his hand and squeezes.

Ryder can’t seem to remember how to breathe, letting out a low keening whine that won’t stop, despite his best efforts to hold it in.

Reyes moves his fist up and down, slick, his other hand gripping Ryder’s hip, drawing him in, angling them together, building a steady and punishing rhythm. “Good?” He asks, because he’s a goddamn asshole, his mouth hitches up on one side, discernibly amused, despite the way his voice comes out strained. “That what you wanted?”

Ryder moans, biting down on his tongue, eyes darting to the rover, face flushed up. Reyes has no shame, absolutely no shame, muttering filth over Ryder’s lips, as if they’re not out in the open, where anyone could see them, if they had half a mind to do so. The sound of snoring is steady, undisturbed, but it reminds Ryder how stupid he is, for even agreeing to this in the first place.

Without an expected answer, Reyes stops mid-stroke, clutches his hand around them near the base, keeping Ryder from moving, stalling him on the brink of pleasure. He looks at him, eyes half-lidded, the challenge clear in the way his mouth quirks.

Fine. Two can play this game.

“Screw you,” Ryder hisses, breathing deep, slow. And, before Reyes can answer with a cliché of his own, he wraps his hand around Reyes', slides a thumb over the tip of his cock, presses against the slit until Reyes is gasping, arching into Ryder’s touch, hips jerking up involuntarily.

Reyes pushes his face in the crook of Ryder’s neck, clenches his teeth over his skin here, making an obvious effort to stay quiet as he comes, jolting his hips up, again and again until he spills over their joined hands, fighting for breath against Ryder’s collarbone.

He gasps into the junction of Ryder’s neck and shoulder. His voice is rough, filled with mirth. “Damn,” he says, with a small laugh. “Competitive, much?”

“I fucking hate you.”

Reyes snorts, wearing the most aggravating facial expression Ryder’s ever seen. “Love it when you talk dirty.”

He shakes off Ryder’s hand, replaces it with his, slicked with his own come, grasping it taut around Ryder’s cock. It’s wet, and slippery, _perfect_. Reyes knows all the right ways to touch, moves exactly how Ryder likes it, and soon, without a warning, Ryder finds himself stiffing back a scream.

“Yeah, come for me,” Reyes rasps, low and husky, pairing it up with a firm stroke, and that’s all Ryder needs, to bring him over the edge.

They breathe like that, against each other, sweat and come cooling on their skin. “Ugh,” Ryder grimaces, once he catches his breath. He wipes his hand over Reyes’ shirt, right in the middle. It’s wrecked anyway, stiff from the sweat and sand-dry. “I hope you have a spare.”

Reyes laughs, pulling the shirt over his head, using it to clean himself off, dragging the rough cotton over his fingers. When he’s done, he ducks to steal one more kiss from Ryder’s unsuspecting mouth. And another one, when he is meet with no opposition. He tears himself away eventually, slipping from the space behind Ryder.

But he doesn’t go far, stopped by Ryder’s fingers, ghosting over the faint scar on his back. His body stiffens, muscles tensing. He stays still, then relaxes just as fast and the line of his shoulders smooths out.

“I--” Ryder starts, quickly finding himself out of words.

Reyes doesn’t let him hesitate. He kisses him again, cutting him off completely. “We’re even,” he says, with an expression not unlike the one he wore that late evening, when they watched the sunrise together. When Ryder though he knew him. When everything seemed so easy.

But it feels like it’s true, now, like it’s effortless somehow. No matter how hard Ryder tried to hide from it. _Even_. Perhaps they are.

“Sleep,” Reyes mutters, pushing himself up. ”I’ll get changed.”

Ryder gives in, the way he always does where Reyes is concerned. He nods, leaning over the crate. He’s out, in the span of one second and another.

When he rouses, the air is chilled, fresh, the sun is long gone. The continuous, steady snore coming from the rover calms him down. If only for a moment. The moon is shining brightly, making the sand glimmer silver and blue, like glitter in the strong, gusty wind. Ryder doesn’t have to strain his eyes to see the dark silhouette of a man, on the edge of the perimeter, far in the distance.

Reyes. With his face illuminated by the pale glow of his omni-tool. His mouth moves as he speaks, his words are nothing but a rustle, drowned in the sea of noise.

It’s probably business. But something in Ryder urges him to stand. The alarms in his brain scream like air-raid sirens. He creeps closer, hiding in the shadows cast by the barricade. The whirling of turrets disguise his movements.

And that’s when he hears it. Keema’s voice, layered with static. “How’s your work with that contact of yours?” She sounds like she always does, a little warm, and a little tired.

“Oh, he’s reliable,” Reyes answer, in a casual tone. Too causal, one might say. “Sharp and quick on his feet.”

Keema hum carries over the comm, barely audible. “You sure you can trust him?”

“He wants it as much as we do.” There’s a peculiar certainty in his voice, but it cracks a bit as he continues, “he’s a good person.”

The line goes so quiet Ryder thinks it might have disconnected. He’s proven wrong when Keema sighs. “Ryder is your contact.” The silence stretches, and neither of them speaks for a few beats. “Reyes.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“I thought you’ve learned your lesson. Do you need him to shoot you in the head this time?”

“He won’t. We have an agreement.”

“And how much is this agreement worth? If you want to trust him that’s your problem, but I don’t see the point in involving him after--”

“We could still use him Keema. We need him. Remember what I said?”

Agreement. Well, that’s one way to call it.

Ryder doesn’t linger to hear the rest, even if the thought of seeing the surprise on Reyes’ face almost makes him wait for the conversation to finish. He turns back, easy in the knowledge that by the time Reyes’s done, the wind will smoothen the fresh footstep, level it down until they’re completely gone.

‘We’re even,’ Reyes said earlier. Stupid of Ryder to think he meant something else.

Of course, it was too good to be true and Ryder’s spent the last couple of weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now it did. And here they are. It’s strange though, that instead of anger all he can feel is... numbness.

He lies down mechanically, shuts his eyes. He doesn’t pay attention to the soft, muffled cracking of disturbed sand, and when he feels something covering his arms, it’s so unexpected he almost shivers. He doesn’t reveal himself, weighted by the stiff material of Reyes’ jacket, pleasantly warm and heavy with the smell of tobacco.

He drifts off near the morning hours, lulled by the rhythmic sound of typing; nimble fingers over the datapad. He wakes up exhausted, feeling as though he has only closed his eyes. But the day has started, whether he’s ready for it or no.

He sits up, the jacket, he managed to forget about, falls from his shoulders to the ground, but the scent of Reyes remains, wrapped around him like incense.

“Bad dream?” Reyes asks from somewhere behind. He kneels next to Ryder, picks up the jacket and drapes it over him once more. He’s watching Ryder with an expression that strongly resembles compassion. On top of everything, it’s just too much.

Ryder hums. He feels bleary, disoriented as Reyes buries a hand in his hair, brushes the strands behind his ear, bringing his head closer. He places a kiss on Ryder’s temple, then stands up, as if nothing has happened.

Astounded, Ryder tries to get himself together, thinking that he might have misunderstood, that he dreamed up the conversation last night. But it feels like lying to himself. He heard Reyes loud and clear. And it makes sense. What’s a better way to get his revenge if not making Ryder feel loved and then using it against him later? Reyes is a patient man, after all. Ingenious.

Ryder tries not to overthink the touch, so goddamned gentle. He dusts himself up, making himself presentable. He doesn’t speak the whole way back to the Flophouse, eyes glued to the window, praying for sleep. The road back just keeps going and going but they reach the base, at last, and Reyes is swept away by his agents, disappearing in his office with a last, fleeting look at Ryder.

And Ryder? He can’t bring himself to care. He goes to his room. _His_ room. It’s such a fucking farce now. A desk, high shelf, bed, large, half-covered window; the same one he was brought to, months ago and left tied to the chair, blindfolded.

There’s a commotion outside, though the base has never been so quiet, so empty before. The sun settles, high on the sky, then falls back down. The shuttles fly over his head, one after another. A surreal stupor falls over the Flophouse and extends well into the night.

Ryder’s comm pings. He hovers a finger over the ‘delete’ button. He can pretend it never reached him. Just like the dozen of others he got in the months after he left Nexus. He can still run away from this. But he’s tired of silence, tired of unanswered questions, and tired of secrets. So he opens it up.

_Pathfinder. We want you to reconsider your resignation. You are therefore requested to report to the Nexus, at the earliest opportunity._

_Director of the Andromeda Initiative, Jarun Tann_

_Might as well_ , Ryder thinks and stands up, mind already made. The leash around his neck might be long, but it’s still here. And he can’t avoid it forever.

His first instinct is to dial Sara, but she doesn’t answer, busy with her work on Aya. Next thing, he calls Harry Carlyle, and the doctor picks up, after the first dial.

“Scott, I was just about to call you myself. I am happy to announce that Kariste is finally awake. She’s making good progress and--” He catches on the silence quickly enough, interrupting his monologue with a resigned breath. “You’re not calling for the update”.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. So Ryder doesn’t. “About the surgery...”

“Scott.” It’s a familiar tone. His father used it constantly. Stern, harsh, displeased. More of a command that a warning. Fortunately, Ryder’s immune to it. ”I can’t refuse, on legal grounds. On moral though,” Carlyle’s confidence wavers. “I want to remind you that this is highly dangerous, the risks--”

The risks. Ryder never cared about risks. Why should he now?

“I am fine with that.”

“You should talk to your sister, and to--”

To a doctor? To Lexi? About what? No. Once you’ve died twice too many times, death isn’t really something you’re concerned about.

“I am good.”

“Scott...” Carlyle paces. The sound of his shoes slapping on the tiles is unmistakable, quick and erratic. It stops, all at once, and Ryder knows, he’s won. “Aright. I’ll inform Tann. If you’re absolutely sure.”

“I am,” Ryder says. He picks up his backpack from the table, yanks the flap open, as the line goes dead.

He packs his belongings swiftly - there’s not much, to begin with - folds his clothes into neat stacks, regulation-like. He leaves the chest piece lying on the bed and goes outside.

Bain’s finishing a cigarette, the ember flickers red like the light on the scope of a riffle. He’s leaning over the rover like he’s never left.

Ryder slides into place, next to him, takes the offered cigarette, lights it up. “I am going back to the Nexus,” he says, breathing out the smoke. It’s cheep, angaran blend, tart and strong.

“Duty calls?” Bain takes a drag, hold it in, pushes the smoke through his nostrils. “Might wanna tell your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure isn’t.” Bain taps a finger over his own neck, mirroring the bruise under Ryder’s jaw. But he shrugs, “suit yourself”.

Ryder takes the last huff, flicks the fag into the sand. Exhales.

And opens the door.


	7. But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical bullshit, sorry bout it.

“Good morning, Scott. “  
  
First thing Ryder notices are the sheets. He registers the voice, of course, a drawl that borders on comically flat, easy to filter out, lost amidst the shreds of leftover dreams clinging to his mind like vines. The sheets though; that’s another story. Sleek and soft, high-grade Tencel, where he expected plain cotton instead. Second, comes the smell; air freshener and antiseptic, nothing like the heavy, suffocating scent of desert sand and salt. And the terrific cold of the bed frame, as he clenches his fingers around the edge, smooth steel, and round corners.  
  
“It’s the 3rd of January, 2823. Nearing eight o’clock,“ the voice drones on, loud and persistent, as though it comes from inside Ryder’s head. “You have been asleep for 27 days, 4 hours, and 36 minutes.”  
  
What?   
  
Ah. Right. The surgery.  
  
“There are 286 new messages on your terminal, 23 top priority,” SAM continues, equally as bleak as before. But there is a hint of something heavy in the stilled quality of his voice. A reproach, or maybe displeasure. “Would you like me to summarize?”  
  
It’s like a bucket of cold water, though not nearly half as startling. “No,” Ryder rasps, blinking his eyes open against the dull light of his Nexus’ quarters. The state of the room appears to be exactly as remembers it; neat and largely empty, as though not lived in. “Is Sara--”  
  
SAM never hesitates. Except for just now. “Three days ago, after Director Tann expressed doubt in your successful recovery... he decided to appoint Sara as your successor.”  
  
That’s it? Almost a year being practically AWOL, countless official messages Ryder sent and never got an answer for, and all it took was three weeks of coma for Tann to throw Ryder away like yesterday’s trash?   
  
“Your pulse has rapidly increased, exceeding the norm by 30 beats per minute. Should I call Dr. Carlyle?”  
  
“No,” Ryder rasps, pushing himself into a seated position, dislodging the I.V., in the process. “I am fine.” There’s a rush of dizziness as he shifts upright, a faint numbness in his limbs that pulls him back down.   
  
“As you say.” SAM doesn’t call him out on the lie, he knows better than to try. The tone of his voice, on a human, would barely classify as disgruntled. On him, it practically screams of annoyance.  
  
“You’re angry.”   
  
Another beat of silence stretches on a little bit too long. “I don’t have the capacity to _feel_ or experience the emotion you speak of, Scott, not in the way you perceive as--”  
  
“You know what I mean. Spit it out.”  
  
“Again, I--”  
  
“SAM. Please. Just--”  
  
“To minimize compression damage to the temporal lobe, Dr. Carlyle decided to perform a stereotactic craniotomy. After 7 minutes and 36 seconds, the chance of failure passed 96 percent, as your brain suffered from neurogenic shock and the immediate complications resulted in a series of seizures, followed by a coma.”  
  
A whole lot of bullshit, that’s what Ryder gets from that word vomit, curtsy of the AI. SAM’s aware, he definitely is, and he does that on purpose. Anyone who says an AI can’t have a mean streak has no idea what they are in for. “Smaller words, _please_.”  
  
“You almost died.”  
  
It’s a statement of how many times Ryder heard these words in the last couple of years, that they’ve lost all their meaning. He almost dies, but then he wakes up, and life goes back to normal. “Must be Monday.”  
  
SAM doesn’t deign that with a response, but he doesn’t cut the conversation short, keeping on with the medical report. “The chances of you waking up were substantially lower than any other time you had suffered a life-threatening injury.”  
  
But does it matter though? Ryder’s been through it so many times he has lost his count. By now, his heart beats on sheer willpower alone, fueled by medi-gel and gallons of coffee. It’s not that he thinks he’s unstoppable, per se. He doesn’t. He’ll admit, but only to himself, and only if nobody’s listening, that he didn’t think his plan through. He acted on impulse, finding a way out, an escape route, grabbing it with both hands and holding on for far longer than it was wise. He’s always been a hothead, but Reyes makes him a fucking coward too, and that is a dangerous combination in itself.  
  
Ryder’s scrambled thoughts and unsaid, stilled words finally catch up with each other, leaving his mouth in a not-quite planned mutter, “and it was all for nothing.”  
  
“I assume you speak of the implant?” Ryder must have phrased his observation like a question and SAM feels obligated to answer. “In that case, no, the procedure you have undergone was successful. It proved that Dr. Carlyle’s earlier predictions were incorrect.” He says that in a surly manner, as though he’s not quite pleased with the outcome.  
  
“Then why are you angry?”  
  
“You’re actions were... unwise.” There’s a shift; almost like a resigned hum. “Although I have to admit that it is _good_ to share the connection with your exteroceptive senses again.”  
  
Classic SAM. From him, it’s a like badge of approval. “Yeah, I missed you too.”   
  
With nothing more to say, because what is there to add when they read each other like a well-loved book, they fall into an easy silence. Ryder uses the moment of peace to simply breathe. Closing his eyes, feeling his fingers curl into the soft material of his sheets. Once Carlyle gets the news - and he will, SAM won’t stall him forever - the shit will inevitably hit the fan, in the most annoying and heartwarming, ‘I told you so; way possible.  
  
“SAM, did you--”  
  
“I’ve contacted your sister as soon as you awoke.”  
  
“Thank you, SAM. Could you--”  
  
“I will forestall Dr. Carlyle for another hour and twenty-three minutes until his routine patrol is over.”  
  
“You’re the best.”  
  
Ryder glances at the terminals in the far back of the room, the large screens filtering information in real-time. He could lie to anyone who asked, pretend he isn’t curious, but there’s nobody he has to fake it for, nobody to judge him. He reaches for his omni-tool, lying on the bedside table by the I.V. stand. He turns it on, logs in, types a long string of letters to access the inbox, scroll through the mail.   
  
The messages and notes vary from as early as a month ago to the last one Ryder’s been looking for, that came only yesterday. The title line is empty, but the sender’s name glimmers brightly, mockingly. Ryder would love to say that he’s a stronger man than this, but the way in which he scrambles to thumb the message open contradicts that.  
  
_Why didn’t you tell me?_  
  
It’s vague, very Reyes-like. Ryder isn’t entirely sure what it refers to exactly. Besides the obvious. Still, it’s gratifying, in the best fashion possible. In the worst too, with how Ryder’s heart soars, up to his throat then slumps to the pit of his stomach, heavy like a dead-weight. His fingers slide over to the ‘answer’ button. The text box pops up, the flickering dots blink at him as he re-reads the short sentence again, and again, trying to make some sense out of it. Whatever the question goes on about, though, it all amounts to the same answer.  
  
_You didn’t ask._  
  
He hits ‘sent’ before he can start to reconsider it, then quickly opens the next message, half-blindly, to give himself something to do instead of overthinking. And he regrets it almost immediately.  
  
The news are announcing the untimely death of Kadara’s own ruler, Sloane Kelly. Word on the streets is, the Charlatan has a successor.  
  
That small part of Ryder that regretted the snide response he’s just sent vanishes before he can even finish reading the second sentence. Of course. Of fucking course. It’s getting pathetic, how easily he lets himself be tied up in Reyes’ games, even when he knows for sure where they will lead to.  
  
He’s not allowed to wallow in misery long before his solitude is broken mercilessly. He gets just a second of warning, SAM’s leveled hum of, “incoming call,” as he patches it through, then Sara’s voice, distorted but clear, coming in full volume from the speaker.  
  
“You piece of shit. You absolute--”  
  
Better to get that out of the way, if he wants to salvage at least a scrap of dignity. “I am sorry!”   
  
It’s enough, it wouldn’t be for him but Sara has always been a much better person, more logical. She grunts a string of profanities, then stops herself mid one to clear her throat before snarling into her mic, “that was an assholish move, brother. What the hell were you thinking?”  
  
“I--”  
  
“Don’t answer that. I know you weren’t.”  
  
Touché. “I should have told you.”  
  
“Yeah, no shit,” she gives a small, dry chuckle. “Maybe it’s better you didn’t.” Her regularly soft voice is rough, betraying the countless sleepless nights. “I was surprised you decided to do this, after what happened in Valay.”  
  
She’s not the only one. As Ryder lied on the operation table, listening to the steady voice counting down from ten, his last thought was of the Primus; the memory of his own hands, controlled by the kett, the absence of SAM’s presence, the excruciating pain. He was scared of it happening again, of losing himself like that. But as the narcosis set, as the world faded out, he knew, that was the reason he needed to do it. If the Primus found another way, to use SAM against him, Ryder will fight. He will destroy her minions, one by one, even if this time, he’d have to pay the highest price for it.  
  
“God, that was so stupid, even for you,” Sara snorts again, a sharp, whistling exhale through her nostrils. She’s probably shaking her head as well, hands on her waist in quiet disapproval. Ryder can picture her in his mind as if she’s standing right in front of him. “For a while I though-- You know.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just... do what dad always did and pretend it never happened, okay?”  
  
“Sure. So...” A nice segue is certainly in order, and Ryder has one on hand. “How’s... work?”  
  
“There were kett sightings, all around the system, nothing major,” Sara begins instantly, easily distracted by the subject of work. “What else, what else... Ah, the other big news of the week. I dunno if you heard, but Sloane’s--”  
  
“Dead?”  
  
“Yeah. It’s a... you know, a death’s still a death and all that. But since she’s been out of the picture, the ‘new’ guys leading Kadara became... willing to cooperate. Which is a huge deal, I don’t have to tell you that. Tann wanted me to go there to officiate, and boy was Reyes shocked to see me, like who did he expect? Addison?”  
  
Ah. So, that's what the message was about. “He didn’t know I resigned.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Because I didn’t tell him.”  
  
Sara draws a quick breath of astonishment, shocked like it exceeds her wildest anticipations. “Oh. Oh my God. Reyes fucking Vidal, seriously, Scott?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
She laughs once, but predictably, she doesn’t pry. “Well, you’re an adult. On paper, at least.”  
  
“You’re a riot,” Ryder huffs, deadpan, more than ready to abandon the subject. “How’s Pathfinding treating you?”  
  
“It’s more of a formality than anything. Besides you’ve done the hard part, now it’s mostly the same thing I was doing; check this or that, vaults, vaults, and more vaults, kett, occasionally.”  
  
“Terrible.”  
  
“Well, I think it’s fun,” Sara admits, sheepishly.   
  
Ryder groans. “You would.”  
  
“You want your seat back?” She doesn’t beat around the bush, though the question is nothing more than a formality.  
  
Ryder doesn’t have to think at all before he replies. “No. Keep it. It’s a shame Tann didn’t let me go after the first _hundred_ times I asked.”  
  
“You know him, he--” There’s a sudden burst of noise, piercing and shrill, rasp of machinery growing louder and louder, punctuated by squawks and screeches. “Wait, sorry, I gotta go. We have a good lead on that missing Ark. Wish me luck, love you, bye.”  
  
She disconnects and the racket ends abruptly. “Love you too, sis,” Ryder breathes out into the empty room. “Take care.”  
  
The conversation, brief as it was, leaves him feeling calm and relived. So, naturally, the universe finds a way to destroy the new sense of peace that encloses him, with a ping that announces a new message. Ryder’s not optimistic enough of a person to expect someone else than Reyes. And he’s not wrong in his assumptions.  
  
_A whole fucking month of silence and that’s what you send me?_  
  
Oh, look at how the tables have turned. Rarely does Reyes let himself appear less than perfectly collected. Even his messages are always thoughtfully worded to reveal only what he explicitly wants to be shown. Well, not always, apparently.  
  
_You’re right. I suppose I should have started with ‘congratulations’._  
  
Ryder’s still looking at his omni-tool, waiting for the response, so when his comm rings instead he’s so startled, he picks it up right away. “Yes--”  
  
“We’re not doing it like this,” Reyes hisses, in that cutting tone of his, devoid of any warmth. He’s breathing deep, slow like he’s trying to control himself.  
  
It has a strange effect on Ryder. His fingers clutch the sheets tightly, fingernails digging into the mattress. It’s been a month since they last spoke. For Ryder, it feels like only a day or so has passed, given that he slept through the most of it. But just hearing Reyes speak wrenches his gut inside and out. And it’s terrifying.  
  
“Why, because you said so? I am busy right now--”  
  
“With what? Making an idiot out of me?” Reyes’ voice is harsh, heavy, and thick with erratic emotions that Ryder can't even hope to put a name to.  
  
“Giving you a taste of your medicine, you mean?” Ryder’s just glad Reyes can’t see him right now; his flushed face and the terrible way his hands tremble hidden in the mounds of his sheets.   
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
“I’ve heard your conversation with Keema.”  
  
A moment of heavy silence passes, then a huff of breath. “She was concerned you’d hurt me again.”  
  
“Well, she shouldn’t have been. Since you bet me to it.” And that’s really not what Ryder wanted to say, and as soon as the incriminating words are out of his mouth he wants to catch them, take them back, but it’s too late, it’s done.  
  
It doesn’t get him a reaction he expected, on the contrary, Reyes seems more peeved than previously. “So you were angry and decided to hide away and ignore me for a month?”  
  
Ryder answers him in the same fashion, not attempting to disguise his ire. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t feel like letting you use me for SAM. Seems like you’ve made do nicely without him, haven’t you?”  
  
“Fuck, Scott, forget about SAM, I didn’t--”  
  
“Explain it, then! Twists it around and convince me it was just a misunderstanding! I want to believe you, but you’re making this--”  
  
“I knew, aright! I knew!” The second Reyes’ voice reaches a loud enough octave, he snaps himself out of this outburst and goes on with a much lower volume, though similarly tense and urgent. “After you got shot for me, the second it happened I knew!”  
  
There has to be something Ryder should say to that, but he comes short of words. He swallows the weak, whiny noise trying to escape the back of his throat, gulping mouthfuls of air to steady himself. It doesn’t help to settle his nerves; he can’t seem to remember how to breathe, or how to speak.   
  
“I saw you fight,” Reyes continues with a hint of unhinged desperation, “you’re reckless, you run headfirst into danger, but Scott, back then? You were methodical, you were-- Without anyone holding you back, you were fucking near berserk.”   
  
“Why didn’t you--”   
  
“Because,” Reyes makes a dry, ugly noise, something between a tired sigh and a chuckle, “then I’d have to tell you I don’t really need you. And there would be no reason for you to stay.“  
  
Just like that, they're finally on the same page, sharing the same footing. The stalemate cracks as Ryder slowly recovers from the shock. How long, did he turn a blind eye to something so obvious? He was so scared, so prideful, he didn’t even notice when Reyes tried to meet him in the middle.  
  
“You know why I never told you I resigned?” Ryder’s words are sudden, seizing his tongue and filling his voice with a conviction that sounds distant, cold, and neutral even to his own ears. “Because they wouldn’t let me. I got fucked up, they told me to work it out, I lost SAM, they told me I can do it without him. I was nothing, Reyes! Without SAM, I was nothing, so I quit, I said I am done and I left. And Tann told everyone I am on vacation,” he laughs, thin and mirthless. “They said I might die if I get the implant again.”   
  
Reyes voice hitches. “You didn’t--”  
  
“I was in a coma for a month. They thought I am not going to make it, so Tann appointed Sara in my place. If I knew all it’d take to resign was to go along with them, I would do it earlier.”  
  
“Scott--”  
  
“It was a mistake. More for me than for you I suppose. I am not cut for that... never was. I just don’t understand why you’d bother.”  
  
“Scott, I have a million things to do and here I am arguing with you over the comm, what does that tell you about my priorities?”  
  
What does it mean, when a man of billion faces and twice as many secrets, a man whose second name is ‘ the Charlatan’ for fuck’s sake, bares himself open like that? When there is nothing he might gain from this, nothing he might want? Did Ryder truly misunderstand him so much?  
  
“I didn’t need you. It was stupid of me to even contact you, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t get you out of my head, no one, Scott, no one I met compares to you. No one ever could. And you know that, don’t you?”  
  
Ryder’s one foot over the cliff, he’s been warming the spot since he woke up tied to a chair in Reyes’ room, all those months ago. Only a step divides him from falling, from the momentous leap of faith. It’s draining. Everything around him moves so fast, his conviction dwindles, then grows, his confidence changes so fast it’s giving him whiplash.  
  
“I can’t... You keep secrets, then you-- Then you act like--”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like you care.”   
  
“I do,” Reyes affirms, doesn’t waver, doesn’t hesitate. His voice feels raw, and Ryder has trouble finding his. “I know I lied to you before. But you have all the important facts. You know _me_.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“How can you even ask? You saw me, you’ve been there. All of this, I thought maybe this time--” He speaks coherently, though his voice carries a hollowness to it that has nothing to do with deception. He stops himself mid-word, and sighs. “Everything else there is to know about me, If you want it, it’s yours. Just trust me, if only a little.”  
  
“I want to.”  
  
“Then--”  
  
“I just need to think.”  
  
Ryder can’t trust himself to make the right choice, not where Reyes is concerned, now when all options seems to be wrong.   
  
“... Okay.” The closed-off poise return, that false calmness, counterfeit cheer. Then a cracked laugh, half-empty sort of a sound. “You know where I am,” Reyes adds, in passing, before the silence chimes, acute, and blank.   
  
“I know.”  
  
And Ryder does. All too well.


	8. Let us not burthen our remembrance with A heaviness that's gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so. There will be another chapter, sorry about that.

“You, there!”

The voice shots down Ryder’s spine, almost at the same time as the quick, dull sound of Bain’s gun safety clicking off. At once, Ryder pivots, biotic sizzling up his hands, then disappearing in a puff of smoke as he stops, nearly eye to eye, with a woman he was not expecting to see this far from Kadara.

‘It’s Crux,’ SAM whispers into Ryder’s head, confirming his suspicion. ‘An associate of Mr. Vidal.’

“Yes, thank you, SAM.”

“Hey,” Crux shouts again, pointing her chin at Ryder, one hand holding her leveled rifle, the other taping at the side of her face, gesturing at him to raise the front plate of his helmet. “You’re Scott, right? Scott Ryder?”

With most of his face uncovered, as per her request, the answer doesn’t need to be voiced, but Ryder does it anyway. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”

The woman grins; a flash of straight, white teeth then a shrug, as she decides to play by his rules. “Crux,” she offers, brushing the red bangs out of her eyes, before returning her riffle to the holster in an ostentatious manner. “The new Charlatan sends his regards.”

 _New Charlatan_ , that’s a joke of the century, has to be. “You know I am not a Pathfinder anymore, right?” Ryder asks, just to make sure, ignoring Bain’s snort, as the man follows Crux’s lead, hiding his gun beside the other one, on his hip.

Crux gives them an unconcerned shrug. “You here for the cache, yeah?” The question is more of a professional courtesy than anything. She knows exactly why they’re here and so she responds promptly, without waiting for Ryder’s input. “It’s here, right out in the back. We’ll get it for ya, just you wait.”

To say Ryder’s baffled it’s to say fucking nothing. When he got the coordinates, earlier that day, he expected a raider camp, nothing too dangerous, but certainly a little bit of reluctance, maybe a bit of a fight. But what he actually got was an emptied out area, filled with corpses of the raiders he was supposed to encounter, and in the middle of it all, Reyes’ patsy and a dozen of her man.

“What the actual fuck,” Ryder mutters under his breath, eyeing the retreating back of Crux, disappearing in the back of the camp.

“Aww, ducky,” Bain cackles. His arms lose the tension, now that he knows they are not in any immediate danger. “Your boyfriend is helping. How sweet.”

“Fuck him.”

“Yeah, do. Bet he’d like that.”

Oh, great. Here we go again. “Jesus, Bain.”

“All I am saying, working with him was a real pain in the ass lately, and, you know, maybe if you’d--” 

Ryder groans, rolling his eyes at the crude gesture Bain presents him with. God, it’s like they’re twelve, and he can’t say ‘blow job’ without giggling. “You know what I meant.”

Now it’s the time for Bain to roll _his_ eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, the carefree smile slipping from his face. “What I don’t get is, why are you angry? Vidal wants to do your job for you, I say let him.”

Ryder huffs, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It’s been a month, and his fingers still tremble at the mention of the man, as though he’s some love-sick idiot. Which, admittedly, he is. “So he can lord it over me and ask me to repay him?”

“You don’t have to repay him,” Bain stresses, “that’s the point. It’s free labor.”

Free labor. Ryder laughs; it’s by far the funniest thing he heard in weeks of doing reconnaissance and following the trail Medrow throws them like a dog bone. “Reyes doesn’t do shit for free, Bain, you of all people should know that. He does whatever amuses him at the moment and--”

“Then what’s the problem? Milk it for what it’s worth until he’s giving it. You overthink too much.“

He’s right, of course, he is. And Ryder would have agreed with him wholeheartedly just a couple of months ago. But now? It feels wrong, as though he’s indebted to Reyes somehow, like he owes him. 

“Look,” Ryder says after a deep breath. But out of the corner of his eye, he sees a movement. Crux appears in the distance, carrying a large crate under her arm like it weighs nothing. “Look,” Ryder repeats, but with a wholly new conviction. “Here’s our cache.”

Bain isn’t that easily fooled, but he’s easy-going, though some of his coworkers like to say otherwise. “Quick delivery,” he whistles, a sharp sound that carries with the wind. “Love the service.”

“You would,” Ryder mumbles under his breath, mindful of the volume of his voice. Crux is only a few steps away, the space should be short enough to cut that line of the conversation in the bud.

It doesn’t and Bain pokes his elbow between the plates of Ryder armor in a little jib that’s more of a friendly pet than an actual punch. “Well, you know my type,” he snaps in the same tone, grinning from ear to ear as he brushes past Ryder, on the way to take the cache. “I like ‘em feisty.”

Oh, yeah, Ryder does know. “I’ll get the rover running,” he mumbles, spinning around and hurrying to the nearby parked vehicle. Bain’s booming laughter accompanies him all the way there.

The road back to the Flophouse is unforgivably short, and no matter how long Ryder keeps asking, Bain refuses to come alone. 

“You sure you want me to deal with that salarian fucker?” He asks, clicking the console closed, and leaning over Ryder’s seat to open the door for him. “Cos I might just kill him this time.”

He’s only joking. Probably. But he plays his cards well, and Ryder can’t risk him following with that threat. “Alright.” He picks up the cache in both hands, then jumps out of the rover, feet sliding on the soft, undisturbed sand.

He gets only part-way to the entrance, before Bain stops him, one hand on the console, the other holding the door ajar. “Scott!”

“Yeah?”

“Do us all a favor and just fuck him, okay?”

“Bain!” The shout rips out of Ryder’s throat without his permission and his tone is so deeply scandalized it brings a flush of pure embarrassment to his cheeks. “ I swear to God!” 

He doesn’t wait for any more glib suggestions, and for the fear of giving Bain another opportunity to mock him, he speeds up. The engine roars, but the noise is not fairly loud enough to muffle Bain’s hysterical laughter. What a fucking riot. 

Once inside, Ryder feels immediately glad for two things. One, being the shade; the cold, metal walls give off a blissful respite from the overwhelming heat of the outdoors. An two, a more complicated reason, that he could explain two-folds. 

Since Reyes shifted his man base back to Kadara, the Flophouse seems almost deserted in comparison to the earlier fullness. It’s not a bad thing, especially now, since Ryder gets almost all the way to Medrow’s ‘room’ without meeting a single agent. They’re still here or scattered around Elaaden, like Crux or other members of the Collective, but most of them are back in their old hideout, acting more openly now than they ever could before Reyes took over.

There are downsides to it. In the crowd so small, the word goes around faster than a lightning strike, and so, as soon as Ryder passes the fist agent, he’s sure that by the time he’s out of Medrows cell, everyone will know about his visit. And only if he chooses to believe that Crux didn’t reach to the base the second Ryder had the cache secure in his hands.

“Ryder,” the agent nods, with something like eagerness and more strangely a _relief_ in his voice. He stands a little straighter, like some of the youngest soldiers used to do, back when Ryder was still a Pathfinder. “Boss is in the storehouse,” he reports, as though Ryder asked him about it. But it seems Ryder couldn’t have any other business here, than crawling back to Reyes.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping the sarcasm out of his tone as best as he’s able to. Which is not much. “I am here for the cache, actually.” He raises the crate a little higher, jiggling it around in case the agent somehow missed it.

“Oh.” His face slacks, but then with increased vigor, he yanks it out of Ryder’s hands - and Ryder only allows it because he’s honestly surprised by the action - and taking several, quick steps back, without even turning to see where he’s going, he yelps, “I’ll get it to the Doc! Leave it to me!” And he’s gone, just like that, running down the corridor like a man on a mission.

Ryder blinks. First at the spot where the agent stood just a second ago, then at his empty hands, still outstretched in front of him. “Jesus,” he sighs, letting his arms fall limply to his sides. But it’s good, isn’t it? His job here is done, he can return to his room in The Paradise and think about why the hell had he decided to come back here, on Eladen, despite all his options. 

Now even a week ago, Tann offered him a job as the angaran emissary, hoping perhaps, that Evfra will be more open to working with a human he already knows. Then Addison told him about an open position for the Council. And that on top of Sara’s offer for him to join her on her search for the missing Ark, though she didn’t really need his help, she had done all she was tasked with and more. As for Ryder, there were several other, more or less interesting propositions, including a few more... Illegitimate. To his immense surprise, there is still a lot of work to do for an ex-soon-to-be-Alliance, retired Pathfinder, SAM-wielder, and a general fuck-up.

But at the end of the day, Ryder turned them all down. Why? He’d love to say he doesn’t know. But that would be a lie of the largest caliber. SAM knows better than to point it out, and Ryder has never been more grateful for his silent, yet persistent presence. 

The reason is quite simple, in truth. It’s the same one that leads him to the storehouse, instead of back out of the building, lead like a puppet on a string. But it can be a friendly visit, right? He can pop up, after a month of absence, say his thing and go on his merry way. 

Ryder’s adamant to do just that. Until the hangar opens and all his resolve shatters like a coffee cup on the tiles. 

Reyes is the first to speak, the first to notice Ryder’s appearance in the room. It’s nothing surprising, he’s paid for seeing things before anyone else. Except now, he doesn’t need to keep his front, his smuggler-by-day facade. 

“Scott.” He says the name in that terrifyingly weighty tone like he forgot he was in the middle of a conversation. The look in his eyes is one that Ryder can't quite read beyond guarded. His tone is bland - but deliberately so. Looking for a reaction. “Leave us.”

His agents jump to their feet, whirling around like they didn’t hear the door sliding open. They’re almost out of the room before Reyes can finish. It’s a rather amusing sight, but neither of them pays attention, eyes locked on each other from across the room.

Ryder forces a smile, acutely aware of his own body, every little detail of his reaction, held under Reyes' unstoppable scrutiny. It’s been-- 

‘Three weeks and five days,’ SAM fills helpfully. And that interruption is what Ryder needs to shake off his stupor.

“Reyes. How’s the spotlight?”

Whatever he expected Reyes to say, he doesn’t hear any of that. Reyes shrugs lightly with one arm only, eyes unreadable. He makes a noncommittal hum, low in his throat, that might as well be a response.

“I... brought the cache.” 

And finally, something shifts. “Sure,” Reyes looks away, flicking a datapad to the side. He doesn’t return to his work, doesn’t dismiss Ryder either. But there’s something lackluster in the way he speaks, stilled and bland. “Is that all?”

Well, a;l right then. It’s been a month, what did Ryder expect? To be welcomed with open arms? To... To what? He could have taken the easy way out and just leave when he had the opportunity. But he didn’t. 

He swallows compulsiveness, glad now, that Reyes’ attention has moved back to the table in front of him. “Yes,” he says, moving as if to leave, but before he can twitch but an inch, the door slides closed, right in front of his very eyes.

“What--”

“In a rush, are you?” 

It’s curt, but there’s a sharp undertone to it. When Ryder turns to level Reyes with a glare, he finds him still transfixed on his notes, expression schooled. 

“I have things to do.”

And that’s what gets a reaction; a spark of something heated in Reyes’ otherwise cold eyes that he still refuses to raise from the table. “No. I don’t think so.” Finally, gracing Ryder with a look, that’s a little less dull that his tone, he pats the table in front of him, tilting his head. “Come here.”

Ryder’s ashamed to admit, that his body moves on its own volition, but his brain manages to catch up fairly quickly before he makes a step, and he only shifts his weight, from on foot to the other. “Um... Why?”

Reyes snorts, picks up a datapad, and presents it as an offering. The message open on the screen is too small for Ryder to see, from this far away, even if he squints his eyes. “Come here, look at this.”

It’s a trap. But Ryder pushes himself forward, cutting short the distance that divides them. The datapad drops, predictably, with a clinking sound, down on the table, as Reyes’ now freed hand lands on Ryder’s wrist. 

“You--” Ryder flexes his arm, feeling the secure grip of Reyes’ fingers around him. 

“It’s a report from Crux,” Reyes explains, with a minute smirk. He releases his hold on Ryder, but not for long. His fingers trail over the tendons of Ryder’s forearm, slowly, languidly. His touch is like fire on Ryder’s already overheated skin.

“Then why--”

“To get you closer, why else?”

Ryder’s heart stops. His breath hitches, and from the look in Reyes’ eyes, he notices it too. When he reaches to cup Ryder’s jaw, bury his fingers into his hair, Ryder is helpless, unable to stop it from happening. He melts, held tightly by a pair of rough, familiar hands. 

Reyes smiles again, but it’s not his usual mile-long smirk either. It’s fainter, almost shy. When Ryder doesn’t protest, he shifts as if he means to kiss him, but he stops, mid-way, and waits for Ryder to close the space himself.

There’s a bit of silence, a second of hesitation, when Ryder thinks about leaving, about washing his hands of this disaster in the making. He can almost see himself, turning away, like he’s done so many times before. But it’s redundant, he knows it now. He can’t deny it anymore. All fight leaves him, just like that, and he’s rendered speechless, grasping the edge of the table for support. 

And there it is. The leap of faith. Ryder braces himself. And jumps. 

When he leans over to join their lips, the closeness brings that overwhelming scent of expensive tobacco and sharp cologne, the taste of ash and the sweetness of Tavum, heavy and intoxicating. It’s good, it always is, though this time, it ends before it can get any further.

Reyes breathes out a strangled laugh, his breath fans across Ryder’s lips. “Was it so hard?” He asks, elevated, but doesn’t care about the response, because he swallows the ‘yes’ off Ryder’s tongue, gulps it down along with his moans. Neither of them, it seems, can keep their hands to themselves for very long.

With both hands gripping Reyes’ arms, Ryder pulls them together until there’s nothing between them, just enough space for Reyes’ hand to edge past the waistband of Ryder’s pants.

With a gasp, Ryder breaks off the kiss, fingers tangled in Reyes’ shirt, not sure when he’s put them there. He glances away, at the stacks of datapads, sheets of blueprints. “We should--” He starts, but he can’t finish that thought. 

So he lets Reyes kiss him again, and again, stick his hand under his shirt, unfasten the armor and leave it in a heap, scattered all over the floor, as he crowds Ryder, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.

Like that, with his back pressed tightly against the cold, cave wall, Ryder can’t think of anything else but that day, that hot, sharp noon, years ago. It’s like a flashback, a not-quite memory of what could have been, if he didn’t act on his wounded pride, if he didn’t warn Sloane about the sniper, didn’t run after Reyes with his gun leveled straight on the back of his head only to falter at the last moment, aiming lower.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Reyes whispers, his tone colored by amusement, not frustration. Like he finds it charming, the restless turn of Ryder’s mind, as though it’s a quality he likes, even if at times, it causes him grief. “Stop.”

But Ryder can’t help it, now, can he? Not when Reyes holds him like that, like it’s something more than a momentary distraction, more than a _deal_ , now that nothing is holding them together; not their job, not Medrow, not even the Primus. 

Ryder wants to say, ‘I love you’, and ‘I can’t do this anymore’, but neither of those will pass his throat. 

He turns away embarrassed and Reyes allows it, indulges him. He wraps his hands around Ryder, holding him with his back against his chest, skimming soft kisses along the side of his neck, sliding the shirt over his head, and licking a brad stripe down Ryder’s spine, sipping lower, to the small of Ryder’s back. His hands ease off, and Ryder feels a sharp jolt of cold as his pants are tugged down, but before the absence can be truly registered, there’s a wet, maddening sweep of a hot tongue over the cleft of his ass.

“Oh, God, you--”

It’s a good thing Reyes’ mouth is busy because even through the abrupt haze of pleasure Ryder can imagine Reyes’ response to that, his ‘it’s Reyes, actually’ drawled in a dry like a desert tone. The next groan Ryder makes has nothing to do with that clever tongue working him open, but with the joke he knows could be coming at any moment. So just to prevent it, Ryder stretches his arm, grasps a handful of Reyes’ thoroughly gelled hair, and keeps him there, where he wants him.

Reyes’ doesn’t oppose, on the contrary, the delighted moan he makes goes straight to Ryder’s cock. He bobs his head, sucking at the rim, making Ryder swear again, as his tongue dives in, licking and suckling in a slow, maddening caress that appears to last for hours.

Ryder opens up for him easily, muscles relaxing first under Reyes’ tongue, then his fingers, stretching him until he’s loose and dripping with saliva. As three fingers stroke at his entrance, slick with spit, sinking into him all the way, building a steady, unhurried rhythm, Reyes bites whatever skin he can reach, leaving hard, bruising kisses in his wake.

“Fucking hell, Reyes--” Ryder can't stop buckling up into the touch, but Reyes' other hand, rested proprietary on his hip, hot as a brand, keeps him from moving. “Fuck, I--”

“Can you come like this?” 

“Y-yeah, if you don’t--” 

There’s a loud, startling noise of a zipper being opened, and then at once, the fingers slide out of Ryder, replaced by the hard, thick tip. In one, smooth shove, Reyes’ fits the entirety of his cock inside, slick with saliva and pre-come. 

Ryder mewls, wrung tight; a litany of small, breathless moans of "oh, God, please," that get him dragged back into Reyes' cock just a bit faster. 

“Good?” 

Ryder can’t do much more than nod his head, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead on the cold, uneven wall. But his reaction has to be enough, seeing as Reyes reaches around him, circling Ryder’s cock with his already wet palm. 

“Like that?”

Ryder glances down and a hunger simmers low in his stomach, tickles up his spine. “Yes, yes, fuck.” He is stuck between pushing into the heat of Reyes’ palm, and back onto his cock. “Please, just--” 

Thankfully Reyes makes that choice for him, stepping even closer, pushing Ryder until he’s flat against the wall, burying himself all the way to the base. The pace he sets is slow, languid, and though Ryder expects it to speed up at any moment, it never does. Reyes rocks into him slowly, barely pulling out, like they have all the time in the worlds, all the while holding Ryder tightly, like he’s fragile. Like he loves him.

And that thought alone sends Ryder toppling over the edge, without a warning. He slaps a hand over his mouth, biting his fingers to stifle the mewl that tumbles out of his mouth as he comes. 

Reyes fucks him through it, in the same, languid tempo, but it doesn’t take long before he reaches his own release, sliding out of Ryder, teeth sinking into the meat of his neck as his come splatters on the small of Ryder’s back. 

“Shit.” Reyes murmur breaks out of his throat, thick and dark, like smoke and incense, and Ryder feels the smile more than he can see it, pressed into the side of his neck. 

It’s... different. Then again, everything is these days. “That was quick.” Ryder rasps. He has to say something, anything, to break the strange spell that overcame them. 

Reyes doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t even listen. The hand he has still wrapped around Ryder’s softening cock tightens, wet with his release. He slides it up to the top, as though trying to coax it back to hardness. Ryder endures the touch for a little while longer, reluctant to leave the warmth of Reyes’ embrace. He doesn’t have much choice when the stroke edges far too close to pain. 

“Okay, that’s enough of you,” he grumbles, swiping at Reyes’ hand and pushing himself around. 

“Is it?” The infuriating smirk crawls back on Reyes’ face. Standing as close as he does, it’s a mot point to pretend his suggestive tone doesn’t have the intended result. 

“For now.”

“Mhm.” 

Zipping back his pants, Reyes is back to fully dressed, and it should feel wrong for Ryder to still be mostly naked in front of him, like an imbalance of power, too much like giving in. But the stakes are evened out, when Reyes wipes his hands on his shirt, then pulls it off and start cleaning the come off Ryder’s skin, before it has a chance to stiffen.

It’s such a Reyes thing to do, that Ryder laughs, choking out a small, “I missed you.“ It’s the afterglow, it must be. His loose tongue pushes the unwanted words out, and his mouth snaps with a click, a second too late.

Reyes looks up at him, startled. He hesitates, glancing down, at his own hands. He finishes wiping the last stripe of Ryder’s stomach, before tugging his pants up, fastening the front. He takes his hands back, holds the crumpled shirt between lax fingers. 

“You could have come here at any time.” 

Ryder could, if he wasn’t a coward. Just like now. He picks up his clothes, tugs them on, one by one, smooths the wrinkles, though his jacket is a lost cause. “I thought you were back on Kadara.”

It’s a shitty excuse, and Reyes grimace serves as a confirmation. “You knew I weren’t.”

Bain and his big fucking mouth. “Look, Reyes, I--”

“Vetra Nyx on the line,” SAM’s voice is like a bucket of ice-cold water. “It’s urgent.”

Ryder staggers a step back, thumbing his omni-tool, pretending he doesn’t hear the peeved curse Reyes spits under his breath. “Yes?”

There’s a deep exhale, a surge of static, then a groan. “Uh, hey Scott.”

“Vetra? What’s--”

“Okay, listen,” Vetra swallows audibly, or well, she would, if she was a human. But her mandibles click in that characteristic way they do only when she’s scared shitless, which is as rare as it is troubling. “So, it’s probably just a... you know. A false alarm or something, you know how often we--”

“Vetra! Focus.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” She mutters something, repeats the apology a couple of more times, before pushing out three, short words that chill Ryder to the bone. “Sara is gone.”

Ryder’s pulse speeds up to a wild gallop. He feels the throbbing of his heart, hears SAM’s instructions to breathe, but all he can do is stand, eyes on the wall in front of him, as he chokes out, “gone?” 

“Off the radar. We’re near Saajor, she... she wanted to check out a signal--”

“She went alone?”

“No! You think I’d let her-- I mean, she’s with Liam and Cora--”

“And they’re gone too?”

“Yes, all off them. We lost their signal and we don’t know what to do now. Scott, I--”

Saajor. Fuck. It’d take at least three hours before Ryder can get out of the Zaubray system. But if he sets out now, he might--

“I am on my way.” 

The line goes dead, and Ryder is halfway through the room, out of focus, grasping at the door, before a hand latches around his forearm and yanks him back. 

“Wait. What are doing?”

Ryder stills, caught by Reyes’ unexpected grip. He’s been so startled, so terrified, he forgot where he was. “I am going to find my sister,” he stammers, weak and soft.

“How? On foot?” 

It’s a rude awakening, no matter how gently it is delivered. It’s true. Ryder is not the Pathfinder anymore. He’s barely a solder. He doesn’t have a ship on his disposal, no troops, no nothing. He’s--

“Come on, I have a shuttle, I’ll get you there.”

“You--”

Reyes snorts, tugging on his jacket, zipping it up. “I was a pilot, Scott,” he clicks a button on the panel near the door, waits for it to open before turning to Ryder, offering him a hand. “I told you that, remember?”

Of course Ryder remembers, he just didn’t think... He didn’t consider, didn’t hope that he wouldn’t have to go through this alone. “You would do that?” He asks, stupidly, but he slips his hand into Reyes’ without a moment of delay.

“I am already doing that.” Reyes’ tone is equally stupefied, exactly as strange and unusual as Ryder’s own. He entwines their fingers, as though in an afterthought, or just because he can, pressing their palms in a gesture somehow far more intimate than the sex they have just indulged in.

“I--”

“Come on,” Reyes repeats, squeezing Ryder’s hand one last time, then leading him out of the room with a gentle pull.


	9. Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I don’t know if you are aware how much your kind words meant to me. Every time I feel discouraged by my writing, I take a look at my inbox and I have so much more power like whoa. I keep thinking about your comments for days if not weeks, seriously, thank you guys! And thanks for all the kudos you leave, it’s good to know you have as much fun reading my stories as I have writing them!
> 
> And just a head up, I am working on another fic. It’ll be slightly AU so I’ll have more power over the story using the established canon. Friends to lovers this time, fewer misunderstandings but still some angst, because come on, that's me we’re talking about. I can’t promise when I am gonna post it cuz I am busy af right now. :/ But I need to write it bc I keep of thinking about it all the time.
> 
> Alright, enough of this, enjoy the finale, as always, I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

Ryder bites his lower lip so hard he feels blood seeping from the cut, tastes it on the top of his tongue. The shuttle flies fast; the view blurs into a large spot, gray and blue of the approaching Pas-09. There, suspended near the orbit of the planet, hovers a white Initiative shuttle, and next to it, an enormous, though downed, kett dreadnought.

“ETA 3 minutes, 45 seconds.”

The ship is only partially broken. The main part appears to be active; the light on the roof blinks steadily, like a three stories tall lighthouse. There’s enough of the ship left for a small squad to be lost in there for days. Days without food and water, surrounded by whatever remaining security system might be still running.

  
At that thought, Ryder’s fingernails dig into his arm with a rapid viciousness. The pain doesn’t register, and at first he’s not aware that he’s doing it; not until a hand catches him around the wrist in a stone-tight grip.

Reyes doesn’t take his eyes off the front window of his shuttle, but he employs the console using only one hand, left at that, making it look so terribly effortless.

“Calm down.”

“Right,” Ryder mutters, a little ashamed of forgetting himself like that; of being caught. His voice comes out broken with worry, and though he clears his throat it doesn’t help his case. So he unclenches his teeth, goes for a smile, but whatever actually shows on his face makes Reyes wince.

“You don’t have to do that, Scott.” The hand clutching Ryder’s slips; but doesn’t let go entirely. Reyes twines his fingers with Ryder’s, slides his warm, rough skin against Ryder’s softer, but dead cold one in a gesture so intimate Ryder is too startled to oppose it. “Not with me.”

Easy to say, isn’t it? For a man who spends half of his life shrouded by shadows.

Ryder’s first reaction is to snap, but his mouth opens up soundlessly, and not even a gasp comes through it. Because Reyes is right. They’re only minutes away from their destination, having spent the last couple of hours stuck together in a confined space of the shuttle. Reyes has already seen Ryder at his worst, on the verge of panic, eyes glassy with unshed tears; what else there is to show?

“What if she’s--”

“She’s not.” Reyes is quick to cut in, though without any heat. He squeezes Ryder’s hand once more before returning his own to the console. “If she’s half as reliant as you are - and I saw how she dealt with the Primus - she’ll be fine.”

It’s not that Ryder doubts his sister’s ability to survive, the persistence and stubbornness that rivals nobody else. He just... lost enough, coming here.

The steady flow of the shuttle comes to an end, as Reyes prepares for landing. He’s not a reckless pilot, which comes as a surprise to Ryder. Reyes is careful, by-the-book. It’s unexpected for a man who seems to live for the danger. Though that too, his tough-guy farce Ryder’s believed in so strongly for months, appears to be nothing more than one of the many masks Reyes shrouds himself behind. And it downright silly, to understand it in a moment such as this. That maybe, just maybe, Reyes doesn’t have an ulterior motive. Not in this.

“When we get back--”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Scott.”

It sounds more tired than bitter, and there’s a reason for it. Ryder’s erratic; with worry, with this untimely epiphany. But Reyes is as level-headed as always. With his cleverly disguised focus, and the seriousness, he doesn’t need to hide. Not anymore.

So Ryder swallows his words down, keeps them for a better moment. If Reyes is surprised by the compliance, or if he thinks it’s caused by fear or concern, he doesn’t mention it either way, doesn’t say a thing.

“ETA 23 second.”

It’s unnecessary, the announcement SAM repeats every couple of minutes since they departed from Elaaden. But it’s a welcome distraction, a reassurance Scott desperately needs right now.

The shuttle halts eventually, balanced on the partially broken docking bay. It’s a feat in itself, no matter how large the area is, to land here so steadily, so close to the vessel. But then again, Reyes is nothing but the best, now, isn’t he?

“The gravity field remains active,” SAM reports, as the shuttle opens and Ryder steps on the bridge.

True to his words, the filled flickers dimly around them, keeping them afoot. The air filtration system and heat management seem to be working as well. The entrance to the dreadnought is closed, but not locked. All Ryder needs to do is press his palm to the panel, and the ship opens itself before them.

They pass the bridge arm in arm but still wordlessly. Reyes’ grip stays steady on his gun. His eyes are calm, if only for Ryder’s benefit.

The corridors are thin but vast, with many doors, most of them blocked. But with SAM’s guidance, they find the command center with relative ease.

There, with his helmet rested on the inactive console, they see Liam. He doesn’t notice them outright, thumbing the buttons, trying to get the terminal to turn on - and judging by the steady stream of curses - failing miserably.

“Liam!”

The man startles, hands going to his hip as though trying to reach for his rifle, but halting mid-way, as he stares at the open door, mouth agape. “Ryder? How did you--”

“Vetra contacted me. She said you went MIA.” Ryder doesn’t wait a second. He brushes past Reyes, and though he notices the man tense, he doesn’t spare him a moment, mind already running ahead of him, ready to act. “SAM traced you back to the vessel and we came as quickly as we were able.”

“Yeah, good to see you too. How’s--”

“Where is Sara?”

Liam sighs. It’s easy to say he wasn’t expecting anything else than a cordial, very Ryder-like ‘get going, soldier’, though he still hoped, that maybe an entire year of not seeing each other warranted a bit of... a warmer welcome.

“Oh, man,” he mutters under his breath, brushing the back of his neck with his palm. “Straight to business with you, huh? You haven’t changed a bit.”

Then, he glances at Reyes, hovering near the door, as though finally noticing him. He’s surprised; his eyes grow wide like saucers. But he knows better than to question Ryder.

“I thought Cora was with you?”

“She is. Err, was.” Liam waves his hands a bit, then points at the entrance on the opposite of the room. “We take turns walking around the ship, searching for Sa-- I am mean for the Pathfinder.”

Ryder’s eyes fall on the doorway as soon as Liam signals to it. “How long does she remain without contact?” He almost doesn’t feel the rapid beating of his ill with anxiety heart. Here, with an audience, it’s easier to pretend he has everything under control. It’s expected, after all.

Liam shrugs. As if by habit, he flickers his omni-tool to check the time, but it doesn’t respond, blocked by an external force. “How long we’re here for? Cora said something about the ship’s systems disrupting the signal, or something like that.”

“A stealth mode,” SAM chirps helpfully. “More data needed.”

“So, no contact since you stepped inside the vessel, is that right?” Ryder’s truly surprised how steady his voice comes out as, how cold. But he’s not waiting for an answer. He’s grasping for the door before Liam can even start answering.

“Yeah, but Cora--”

It’s a quick calculation. Three hours' drive and who knows how many since Vetra decided to finally contact Ryder. Sara could be dead and if Ryder stays here any second more, talking, instead of searching for her, he’ll never forgive himself.

“Let me try.”

“Uh, Ryder--”

“Ryder!”

But Ryder’s gone; across the room, in through the door and down the hallway.

Liam shakes his head, letting out a dry, soft chuckle. He turns to Reyes, but to his surprise he finds the man gone. He catches but a glimpse of his back, disappearing behind the door.

“Shit.”

  
XXX

  
The narrow hallways seem to stretch out in miles, leading Ryder on a wild chase through the identical rooms, past the similar doorways, and into yet another empty, industrial area.

But then something changes. The lights dim, the steady hum of the machinery grows stronger and stronger.

Ryder takes a sharp turn--

“Heat signature, five meters to the right.”

And stops dead in his tracks.

“Scott?” It’s almost comical. The way Sara’s eyes widen, the matching shade of his own, as she stares him down, mouth open. “What are you doing here?” She’s kneeling near a large, blocky piece of tech that appears to be a conductor of sorts.

“Wh-- What am _I_ doing here? Vetra--”

“Ah.” Sara chuckles, more than a little sheepishly. Her dirty with grease hand brushes a stray lock of hair out of her forehead, leaving a dark smudge of the lubricant on her skin. “Well, you know her. She’s a worrier.”

“Liam said--”

“I know. I saw Cora like, fifteen minutes ago? She went to bring Liam over.” Sara stands up, stretching her sore from leaning over muscles. “This thing,” she snorts, patting the conductor, “is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“It’s...” Ryder’s not sure what he intends to say. And maybe it’s a good thing because he can’t for the love of him spit anything out, save for a bastard child of an irritated gasp and a relieved sigh.

“I know right,” Sara laughs, clicking something on the nearby terminal. The buzzing stops and the sudden, dead silence is sharp and deafening in comparison with the earlier tumult. “A stealth mode. Signal interceptor. Clever, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, now that you’re here, and seeing as I am done with that thing, you’re cordially invited to a movie night back at the Tempest.” She grins, resting both of her hands on her hips. “You don’t even need to bring the snacks. I have it all covered.”

Snacks, huh? Leave it to Sara.

Ryder’s spent three long years serving with his former squad, doing a mission after a mission, risking his life alongside the rest until his fateful run-in with the Primus; and even after all this time, he and this team were nothing more than coworkers. There’s some fault of Ryder’s in it, though he’s always preferred it that way. All by himself, focused on his work. Save for one, sordid almost-affair, a slight slip-up ending with a madwoman as a ruler of Kadara, and costing Ryder a whole lot of regrets.

But look at Sara; only half a year as a Pathfinder and she’s not only preparing a movie night on board of the Tempest; she’s also dating one of her crew-members.

 _Way to go, sister_ , Ryder thinks to himself, feeling the adrenaline leaving his body in tangible waves. _Way to go_.

“I am not alone,” is what’s actually leaves his throat, when he is searching for a polite ‘no’ instead.

“Oh?” And that startled surprise on Sara’s face should have feel insulting, if not for the unconcerned shrug she presents him with a second later. “Bring them with you then. Or do they not--”

“It’s... complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

There’s not a good way to say it, so Ryder doesn’t even attempt to sugarcoat it. “’Reyes’ complicated.”

“Oh, brother.” Sara’s face splits into a huge, impressed grin. “I thought you said--”

“I know what I said.”

“Right, right. Just--”

Ryder sighs, a loud, deep exhale that echoes in the empty space, dulled by the sporadic creaking of machinery and the sound of the signal returning to their omni-tools. “I was wrong.”

“Wow, damn.” Sara gapes, though it’s more for show than anything. “Did you just--”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No, no, but that’s huge! You? Wrong?”

“Hilarious.” With a groan, broken off by a stiff litany of curses, Ryder runs a hand over his face. “Do remind me, why am I here?”

“Okay. Sorry. I just... I guess I didn’t expect that... you know, that things were so serious between the two of--”

“They’re not,” Ryder is quick to interrupt. Too quick, maybe. His nervous tone makes it clear that he’s lying, at least to some extent.

“Okay?” Sara mouths, drawing it out a little, all the while her eyes flicker to the entrance. “I should--”

“For him, I mean.” The singular truth Ryder tried so hard to ignore. He fought it, tooth and nail, and still, he had lost. “I love him, that’s the thing. He’s just not that into me.”

There’s a squeak of combat shoes on the sleek tiles, right behind Ryder’s back; the same shoes whose drumming he didn’t hear, the footsteps he somehow missed. Then, as the skin on his arms crawls, and the small hairs on his neck stand at attention, he hears a pointed sigh, then someone clearing their throat.

Sara snorts, then promptly ducks to hide her smile. “I’ll... see myself out.” And she does, circling around Ryder first, the Reyes second, before leaving, and closing the door after herself. To her credit, her booming laughter is almost inaudible in the long hallway.

“So...”

Ryder doesn’t turn. He can’t, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. What he wants is to melt into the ground, disintegrate into nothingness, or simply vanish. Anything really to still in time the mortification that he knows is coming.

His head is twisted stubbornly, and though Reyes attempts to call his name, Ryder refuses to relent. There’s no need for that, seeing as Reyes is just as comfortable with closing the distance himself.

“In case you failed to notice,” he starts, stopping just shy of touching Ryder. His tone is different than Ryder expected it to be. Not panicked, nor angry. Not even smug. It’s... soft. “Your feelings are reciprocated.”

That’s as far from what Ryder expected to hear as it could get. Okay, he did think that he and Reyes became friends, however reluctantly it has happened. Lovers, as well, that’s just as hard to deny. But he never, not in his wildest dreams, expected Reyes to feel the same.

“O-oh.”

“Has been,” Reyes goes on, voice just as quiet, just as patient. It seems like nothing to him; that confession. But Ryder knows how much it costs him. He understands it now. “For quite some time.”

“I-- That’s good?”

Reyes laughs; that full, breathy laugh Ryder loves. Paired with his eyes crinkling at the corners and that exasperated huff of breath that makes Ryder weak in the knees. “And before you start overthinking it, yes, that also means we’re together.” He sobers as he says it, meeting Ryder’s gaze and holding it for a moment before continuing. “If you--”

“I do.”

Once upon a time, Ryder would be embarrassed by how fast that word tumbles out of his mouth. Not now, though, not this time. It’s worth the way Reyes’ shoulders fall, how his mouth twists up in a smile so dazzling, Ryder can do nothing but watch it, with his heart drumming so madly in his chest he can acutely feel every single beat.

They both look at each other, a little stiff, a little unsure. Each waiting for the other shoe to drop, each less than perfectly sure. But the reverie doesn’t last long at all.

“Great,” Reyes is the first one to break the silence, he always is, so it’s doesn’t come as a surprise. Nor does the step he takes in Ryder’s direction, though, this time, he is met easily in the middle. “Be sure to share the happy news with Bain, hmm?” He mutters, a little contrary, leaning over for a quick peck; just a press of his lips against Ryder’s, chaste, easy, as though they were doing this forever.

Ryder blinks. “Bain? I’m... pretty sure he knows. Or suspects, at last.” Or more than suspects if his... graphic suggestions the last time they saw each other were any indication.

“Does that mean he’s going to stop calling you ‘ducky’?”

“Ohhh.” That peculiar hint in Reyes’ tone Ryder never could quite put a name to. Now it all makes sense. “You were jealous.”

Reyes rolls his eyes at the delighted smirk that flashes on Ryder’s face, but he doesn’t deny the accusation. “And you were oblivious.”

“I wasn’t--”

“Please, I couldn’t be more clear.”

He could. He definitely could. But Ryder isn’t going to labor the point. Not when he’s being pulled so tightly against the heat of Reyes’ body, close enough that the faintest stir of his breath fans against Ryder’s lips.

Reyes’ touch against the line between Ryder’s hip and his chest armor is so light, Ryder could easily convince himself it’s accidental. Except not with Reyes; the man doesn’t leave a room for any ‘accidents’. His next move is to find a patch of bare skin, sliding his fingers with purpose under the less secure part of Ryder’s suit.

“You’re really going to--” Ryder starts, when he hears the unmistakable sound of his chest buckle snapping open.

Reyes’ head tilts to one side before he responds, innocent, as if his hands aren’t in the process of sliding under the waistband of Ryder’s pants. “Yeah.”

“In a... Fuck... In a--”

“Storage room?” He adds helpfully, in case Ryder somehow forgot where they are. “Absolutely.”

“You’re a madman,” Ryder tries for stern, but the effect is wasted by the needy moan that gurgles out of his throat at the first brush of Reyes’ fingers over his cock. His hips jut forward, and he grabs fistfuls of Reyes’ jacket, paralyzed by the surge of lust and affection.

“But a handsome one th--”

“Oh, God,” Ryder mumbles, choking on a helpless, fond laugh, right before his breath is stolen out of his lungs. All he can manage is a faint, “shut up.”

And Reyes, for once, relents.


End file.
